


Cor Tenebrae

by BootsnBlossoms



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark Magic, Darkness Around Stiles's Heart, F/M, Familiars, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Magical Apprenticeships, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Negotiations, Nemeton, Power Dynamics, Slow Build, Tattoos, Witch Stiles Stilinski, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s hard to hold a flame in your heart and not be consumed by it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in getting a visual on the some of the objects and scenes in the story, I have an [illustrations board up on Pinterest.](http://www.pinterest.com/bootsnblossoms/sterek-cor-tenebrae/)
> 
> Many thanks (in alpha order) to [FlutterFyre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FlutterFyre/pseuds/FlutterFyre) (aka [KissofFlame](http://kissofflame.tumblr.com)), [i-am-sherlock-ed](http://i-am-sher-lock-ed.tumblr.com/), and [rayvanfox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rayvanfox/pseuds/rayvanfox) (aka [zooeyscigar](http://zooeyscigar.tumblr.com/)) for the cheerleading and beta work. Special thanks to KissofFlame for coming up with the title, and helping me through some serious mental blockages at the end of the story. You three are amazing and wonderful and I couldn't have done it without you! <3 <3 <3

**June 6, 2013**

Stiles watched, the anger rising dangerously within him, as Deaton carefully wrapped the German Shepherd's broken leg. He could feel Scott's nervousness beside him, the subtle twitch of muscle that Stiles knew after so many years of friendship meant that Scott was about to jump into the fray. Stiles wasn't sure if Scott would to come to his aid or Deaton's, so he barreled on before Scott could voice his opinion.

"It's not like I'm asking for the keys to the magic candy cupboard," he said with a grimace and a pointed look at the locked but otherwise innocuous cabinet that stood against the far wall. Deaton's eyebrows rose as he looked up at Stiles, then to the cupboard, then back to Stiles again. Stiles would bet anything that Deaton wanted to know how, exactly, Stiles knew what the cupboard contained. Stiles just pursed his lips; he really didn't feel like trying to explain his shiny new sixth sense for the supernatural. The fact was that he could _feel_ magic now in a way he couldn't describe if he wanted to. The sense of power reaching out to him was new since his experience with the Nemeton, and he didn't understand it all.

Which was why he was here.

"I'm sorry, Stiles," Deaton sighed, though his expression remained implacable. "I really just can't be any more specific. Nemetons bring darkness. The effects on its victims are as individual as the people themselves."

Stiles rolled his head and scraped his hands through his hair in annoyance. "But as much as each of us would like to believe we're truly special snowflakes, there are generalizations, right? Teenagers. Werewolves. Guys. Girls. Torch-wielding villagers versus Internet-addicted high schoolers."

Deaton shrugged noncommittally, then turned away from Stiles to look back down at the dog. It growled tiredly, and when Scott stepped up to try and comfort him, it merely snapped half-heartedly before laying its head back down with a whine. Stiles would have laughed at Scott's shocked, betrayed expression if he wasn't sure that would put him on the receiving end of Scott's hurt look.

"I don't get it," Scott said with a sad shake of his head. "Most dogs _want_ me to take away their pain. Can a dog be a masochist?"

This time Stiles couldn't hold back his snort, though he did manage to refrain from cracking a joke about their favorite ex, and now absentee, alpha.

Scott noticed and frowned. Stiles looked away, concentrating on the dog as Deaton continued his work.

"No chip, no collar. Signs of malnourishment, and it’s obviously more feral than tame at this point," Deaton said calmly as he finished wrapping the cast. "If it wants to remain alert, I'm sure it has its reasons."

"She," Stiles corrected, focusing on the sharp, if pained, gaze of the damaged animal. He dropped into a crouch next to the dog, staring into her eyes. He felt Deaton go still beside him, but he ignored the vet in favor of concentrating on the flow of energy coming from the dog. It was like what he felt from the magic cabinet, but less power and more sense of self. Pain. Intelligence. Stubbornness. Fearlessness. It gave Stiles something to focus on, to hold onto. He latched a hand in her ruff — just holding, not petting — and drew on that.

"Tell me what you know, Deaton," Stiles demanded quietly, not looking away from the shepherd. 

Deaton sighed. "No. I don't want you to have expectations that might color your perceptions and change how you react to the way the darkness manifests itself in you."

Stiles wanted to call bullshit and protest that forewarned was forearmed, but knew it would get him nowhere. "Best case scenario?" he asked instead.

"You have nightmares for awhile that fade as your distance from the experience grows," Deaton said after a moment.

Stiles knew that Deaton knew what he was going to ask next. Of course the bastard was going to make him say it anyway. A hot spike of rage coursed through him, shocking him in its unfamiliarity, and his fingers tightened on the dogs ruff. The dog snapped, but not at Stiles... Her jaw bit the air centimeters from Deaton's fingertips, and Stiles felt a vindictive grin take over his face as Deaton withdrew his hand quickly.

"Worst case scenario?" Stiles asked, gentling his hold on the dog and scratching her ear in reward.

"You master the magic you've just started to learn. Then you use it to bring your personal darkness to everyone around you."

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles muttered as Scott inhaled sharply. He thought about Galadriel resisting the power of the ring in The Hobbit, about Willow turning dark in Buffy, about Voldemort not bothering to resist but merely accepting the mantle of terrible power. He snorted to himself, wondering if perhaps Deaton would be a bit freer with his information and assistance if he knew where Stiles was getting his information from. Pop culture wasn’t exactly dependable scholarly knowledge.

“Do you want me to put her in back until the shelter opens tomorrow?” Scott asked quietly, looking at Stiles thoughtfully. Stiles wondered if the nightmares had started up with the same vigor for Scott as they had for him. It had only been three weeks since everything happened, and already Stiles was exhausted and sleep deprived. Scott, the jerk, looked no worse for wear. Stiles hadn’t had the time to ask if it was freedom from the nightmares or werewolf healing.

“Please,” Deaton said to Scott. 

Stiles took that as his cue to leave. He straightened from his crouch by the dog, then looked at Deaton and glared. “You’re not going to help me at all, are you?” But he didn’t wait for an answer. Hell, he didn’t really even expect one. He gave Scott a shake of his head and turned to leave.

A scrabbling noise sounded behind him, and Deaton and Scott made surprised noises which were followed by the snap of teeth and a thump. Before Stiles could turn to see what was going on he felt the pressure of a warm body at his side, leaning against him, keeping her weight off her injured foot. Stiles stared down at the shepherd, who stared back definitely. 

Silence stretched out in the office. Through the physical connection he felt the same waves of emotions that he felt before, this time laced with an unwavering determination Stiles had no interest in testing. 

“Anything I should know about taking care of her?” he asked, craning his neck back to look at Deaton. 

Scott gaped at him while Deaton shook his head. “I’m sure your own familiarity with tending to broken bones will be sufficient. I’d offer pain medication, but something tells me she won’t take it.”

Stiles laughed, fully aware of how little humor there was in the sound, and left, the dog trailing behind.

 

**June 8, 2013**

The most surprising part of the beginning of Stiles’ magical education was just how easy it was to find resources. He half expected to have to drag Scott all over LA, both as a sniffer dog and as proof that he wasn’t some wicca-wannabe, before he found someone willing to speak to him. That wasn’t necessary, as it turned out, and  — considering how much Scott was sneezing by the third incense-filled shop — it was probably an unwise approach anyway.

“Whoever decided patchouli was the _de facto_ scent of magic shops should be shot,” Scott complained, sniffling as they approached fourth shop in Stiles’ list. “We’re fifteen blocks from the last place and I swear I haven’t been able to smell a damn thing else.”

Stiles looked over at him distractedly, thumbing the edge of his map. “Maybe that’s the point,” he offered as he squinted across the street.

“Keeping werewolves confused? The last few shop owners obviously wouldn’t know a werewolf if one bit them on the nose. Seriously.” Scott looked from the list, to Stiles, and back to the list again before he grabbed Stiles’ elbow just as Stiles stepped off the curb. A car Stiles hadn’t even noticed blew by in front of him, horn blaring. “New rule. Actually, old rule that I think is worth enforcing. No walking and reading at the same time.”

Stiles grimaced then pointedly looked both ways before attempting to cross the street again. “I can’t get my bearings around here,” he huffed impatiently. He tucked the printout back in his pocket and let Scott guide him across the street. He’d always thought his first solo trip to California's most famous metropolis would be an amazing adventure, but he hadn’t felt anything but a low grade sense of nausea since they’d crossed into city limits. There was a sense of _disconnect_ that he’d never felt before, leaving him light headed and untethered.  Scott’s hand on his elbow was the first bit of grounding he’d had all morning, and from the way Scott didn’t let go, even after they’d landed safely on the other side of the street, he knew Scott could sense it. “Did you actually _want_ to bite one of the guys on the nose?”

“That one chick with the purple and pink dreadlocks _was_ annoying, with her talk of lycanthropy as a metaphor for unleashing your inner spirit animal,” Scott admitted. He halted in front of of the streaky, grimy glass doors of _The Magick Marketplace_ and grimaced before gripping the door handle gingerly to pull it open.

“Pretty sure she was just hitting on you there, buddy,” Stiles said with a shrug. He thumped Scott on the shoulder before shoving him aside to enter the building first.

The shop wasn’t massive, but despite the floor-to-ceiling shelves, Stiles somehow felt less claustrophobic inside the store than he had standing out in the street. It was lighter and airier than it had any right or reason to be, given the the grimy state of the front windows. The shelves to the left of the store held a mixture of books and magical objects, which Stiles could _feel_  power spilling from. The shelves to the right were stocked with nothing but herbs — dried, fresh, and potted. Several spinning racks filled the floor space, and though they weren’t labeled, Stiles quickly determined they were stocked thematically — altar objects, potion work, charms, divination, candlework, and so on. The cash register in the back rested on a glass case filled with what looked like expensive jewelry, but the waves of energy that emanated from the pieces made Stiles realize that they were, in fact, extremely powerful charms. Unlike the last three places they’d visited, there was a distinct lack of overly colorful fabric, ugly porcelain figurines, and “Life is Good” products. 

Stiles immediately loved it.

“Oh, thank _god_ ,” Scott said with a relieved smile on his face. He took a deep breath and stuck his nose in the air, and Stiles barely managed to suppress a chuckle at the very canine-like reaction.

“Smell good in here?” Stiles asked, taking a whiff himself in what he hoped was a much less obvious manner. “I can’t smell anything.”

“Me either,” Scott responded happily. He took a furtive look around, checking to make sure none of the half dozen or so milling customers were paying much attention to them, and leaned closer to Stiles. “I mean, there’s still the faint undertones of people and the stuff in here, but it’s… mellowed, somehow.”

“Strategic use of peroxide, baking soda, and lemons,” a musical voice informed them from somewhere to the left. Both boys’ heads snapped over, and Stiles felt his mouth hanging open almost comically. A woman, barely five feet tall, stood next to the far back left corner of the shop front window. She had both hands tangled in a nest of beaded wires, each of which ended in a crystal of some kind or a blown-glass ornament that Stiles recognized as witch balls. She was soft and curvy, with blood red lips and steel-blue hair carefully styled into a curve over her head the reminded Stiles of a dollop of whip cream. She wore a silky-looking deep purple dress that ended just above her knees and had an almost obscenely plunging neckline, though several heavy strands of jewelry almost completely obscured the view. Stiles found himself staring at the jewelry, fascinated by the odd pulses of _strength, power, protection, deflection_ that he could feel coming from the seemingly random assortment of pendants.

The woman laughed and gave Stiles a look. “Normally I’d tell someone like you to keep their eyes up,” she said, waving a free hand at her eyes, “but something tells me it’s not the girly parts you’re fascinated by.”

Scott elbowed Stiles, who cleared his throat with an embarrassed cough. “Uh, sorry. That’s some set of, uh, necklaces you have there.”

The woman laughed and freed her other hand from the wires she’d been holding. They spun and dropped free with a quiet cacophony of bell-like tinkles, inexplicably no longer tangled. “Thanks. Something I can help you find?”

Stiles watched as she stepped away from the window towards them, eyes drawn to her bare feet. They were decorated in brown tattoos that looked vaguely familiar, though Stiles couldn’t exactly place them. They were obviously spellwork, a tangle of symbols of power connected by thick lines that roped everywhere from ankle to toes and even curved to disappear under her soles. Stiles took a step forward, trying to get a better look, but Scott stopped him with a heavy hand on his forearm. 

“We’re just looking, thanks,” Scott said, voice suddenly tense. Stiles looked up from the tattoos to peer questioningly at Scott. Scott didn’t look back at him, instead choosing to give the woman a hard stare. 

“All right,” she said with amusement. “I’m Aria. I own this place. Give me a holler if you need something.” 

Scott gave a sharp nod as he tugged Stiles deeper into the shop — and further away from Aria. 

“Dude!” Stiles objected as he flailed, almost falling into a display of athames. He didn’t know which thought was scarier: that he could have been stabbed a couple dozen times by daggers of unknown magical power, or that he might have to pay for the damage that would have resulted. Those were some _expensive_ blades, he thought ruefully as Scott continued dragging him towards the back.

“I don’t like it here,” Scott whispered harshly, giving Stiles a frown, red around the edges of his irises. 

“Relax,” Stiles whispered just as frantically, waving in the direction of Scott’s eyes. “Calm the hell down, dude. What’s your problem? I thought you liked the whole nasty-oils-free thing?”

“There’s something else,” Scott said darkly, finally releasing Stiles’ arm. Stiles rubbed at the probably-bruised skin and frowned. 

“I know. I think we’ve found what we’re looking for.” He took the final step needed to put him in reaching range of the back bookshelf, though he didn’t quite touch. He let his fingertips drift mere inches from the bindings, skipping over most of the mass-produced paperbooks to focus on the ones that he could feel. Some were old, with cracked covers and yellowing thread bindings, but others were new and resembled nothing more than the type of mass-market empty journals sold at chain bookstores. He pulled one off the shelf, opening the pressed-flower cover to find rough pen-scribbled text, pressed plants taped onto the pages, and hand-drawn diagrams. The book practically vibrated in his hands, and his vision was washed over with shades of white. “Yeah. Yeah, make that _definitely_ found what we’re looking for.” 

Scott blinked at Stiles’ eyes, made a choked sound, and ripped the book away. “I don’t like this.”

Stiles felt a surge of anger roil up in him and he clenched his fists and closed his eyes as Scott turned to replace the book on the shelf. He counted backwards from ten, as if he were having a panic attack, and waited for rationality to return. 

This was something new, something that had emerged from his experience with the Nemeton in the same way his new sensitivity to magic had — all at once, and in sharp definition. Stiles had felt anger of course, and had even occasionally acted on it with more than just a sharp tongue. But the fact was that he wasn’t, by nature, an angry person. He honestly suspected it was more because of his ADHD than any inherent goodness; the anger would fill him, take its course, and then wash away in the face of his next distraction. But rage? Rage was new.

 _I can be powerful, too_ , the new, dark voice within him whispered. _My eyes can glow, my fingertips can gather enough power to bring you down, my spark can grow and consume you. You don’t have to like it. This time, it’s about_ ** _me_** _._

Counting backwards helped, though, as it always did. By the time Scott turned back, Stiles had his eyes open again and his inner darkness under control.

Scott stiffened, a low growl escaping his throat before he could control it, and for a moment Stiles wondered if he was about to be in trouble. Then followed Scott’s line of sight to just over his own shoulder. He turned and flailed in shock, almost falling back into Scott, when he found Aria standing right behind him.

“What the _hell_?!” he huffed in annoyance as he caught himself. Scott narrowly missed an elbow to his ribs as he steadied Stiles, then shoved him backwards, behind his now defensive posture.

“Sorry,” Aria said mildly. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Stiles huffed, thinking that her smirk indicated otherwise.

“We were just leaving,” Scott said, but Aria shook her head and chuckled before Stiles could even squeak out a protest. 

“Care to call off your guard dog long enough to have a sweet little chat?” Aria asked Stiles, ignoring Scott completely.

Scott opened his mouth to protest, but Aria brought her hand up, bringing her fingers together in a universal sign for ‘close your mouth’. Much to Stiles’ shock, it actually worked; Scott’s mouth snapped shut so quickly and forcefully that it sounded painful. 

One look at Scott’s furious expression and red eyes told Stiles that the act wasn’t intentional. 

“He isn’t my guard dog. She’s at home, with a broken leg, busy being extremely pissed off that I left her behind.” He looked at Scott’s clenched jaw, then back at Aria’s hand. “How did you do that?” he asked, ignoring Scott’s obvious indignation at Stiles’ blatant fascination.

“Let me show you,” Aria said with a grin. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**June 10, 2013**

“You got a ticket back to _where_?” Cora asked, voice sharp and eyes narrowed. 

Derek sighed as he finished stuffing a pair of tightly-rolled jeans into his bag. As much as he loved Cora, he had a ridiculously hard time shoving away the cognitive dissonance of Cora _now_ versus Cora _then_. She’d always been stubborn, but she also used to be the bright-eyed, giggling ten year old who would climb trees and wait for hours for an unsuspecting passerby to drop onto just for the shock factor. _God_ he missed that playfulness.

He’d hoped that, here in New York, Cora might be able to find that part of herself again. New York was where he and Laura had finally found some measure of peace, security, and healing after too long away from Beacon Hills. They’d settled here when Derek turned 18 and Laura had taken a job as a mechanic. She’d negotiated with the Brooklyn pack for amnesty, and their mother’s reputation, as well as Laura’s own abilities as a full shapeshifter, had made them welcome additions. It hadn’t taken much to get his place in the pack back, especially now that he and Cora were both betas. They’d even given him a new apartment in the same werewolf-controlled apartment building that he and Laura had lived in before, and his old job as a construction crew leader back.

Perhaps irrationally, he had hoped that coming back here, where Cora could see what it was like to be a part of a large, functioning pack, would have had a similar healing effect on her. It hadn't worked so far, though Derek could admit to himself that he might be hoping for too much, too soon. It had only been a month since they’d left Beacon Hills, and while the effect had been nearly instantaneous on Derek — he felt lighter, calmer, more centered than he had since before he’d left New York the first time — the change had done nothing for Cora. She still refused to speak to him about where she’d been before the Alpha pack kidnapped her. She still had nothing but sharp words and a frown for anyone who talked to her. She still curled in on herself at night, stubbornly alone, to let the nightmares have their way with her.

It made Derek ache.

He needed some distance. Just a week. It would be good for Cora, too, to have to spend more time interacting with the others here without him running interference.

“My friend Jason — the one you met at the club? He’s a lawyer. He figured out how I could start the process of reclaiming our family property,” he explained, not making eye contact. He picked up a pair of pajama bottoms, a plaid that he stared at for perhaps a moment too long, and waited for the outburst.

It didn’t come. “Why?” Cora asked, unexpectedly vulnerable.

Derek looked up, surprised. Cora’s features had shifted from suspicious to… _fearful_. The formerly steady beat of her heart ratcheted into something more wild, and the sharp pang of fear, of adrenaline, overwhelmed Derek’s senses.

Despite all her standoffishness, her anger, Derek didn’t hesitate to step over to where she sat on the end of his bed and wrap her up in a fierce hug. 

“We’re not going back,” he said firmly, and her stiff posture melted into a reluctant, but insistent, return embrace. “But I have to do this.”

“Why?” Cora demanded again, pulling back. “For our dead parents? For Scott?”

“Yes,” Derek said with a shrug. “There is no Hale Alpha anymore. Scott is the only one there now, and he doesn’t have history or lineage to back him up if another pack tries to move in.”

“Why would another pack move in?” Cora scoffed. “That place is _hell_.”

Derek reached out and smoothed her hair, ignoring her raised eyebrow. Taking care of her while she was sick had shifted something inside of Derek, even if it hadn’t done much for her. He’d forgotten what it was like to show care and protection through gentle touches rather than rough, hurtful ones. It was nice, to be given a chance at that affection again.

“I don’t know how much you remember, but our parents used to talk about Hale land as something more than just property,” he said. He pulled back and turned back to his dresser, pulling out a shirt. “There was so much magic performed there that the the residual energy draws supernaturals in.”

“The Nemeton?” Cora asked.

“The reason the Nemeton was there in the first place,” Derek said. “At least if the property is in our name, it will be much more difficult for anyone to take advantage of it.”

Cora sighed and nodded. “So it _is_ for Scott.”

Derek paused in the act of rolling his shirt and closed his eyes. Warm, topaz-brown irises and a mole-freckled face smirked at him from behind his eyelids. 

“For Scott,” he lied.

 

**June 11, 2013**

Stiles groaned as the sunlight hit his eyelids, rolling miserably away from the light in an effort to get back to sleep. His head felt like there were dozens of tiny men having a grand time playing racquetball against his skull, and he was in absolutely no hurry to regain consciousness. 

Not that the pain wasn’t worth it. Despite Scott’s vehement protests, which eventually devolved into outright attempted-orders, Stiles had stayed in LA for the weekend after sending Scott home. Stiles had barely managed to keep himself from shouting that Scott may be an alpha, but he wasn’t _Stiles’_ alpha, before Scott finally took the keys to the Jeep and left with a huff. He had given Aria a wide berth, and Stiles one last pleading look, before he vanished in a fit of pique. It had almost been comical when Scott attempted to slam the door on his way out, only to be foiled by the door’s pneumatic closer, but Stiles had managed to not laugh. He knew Scott had his heart in the right place. And, of course, he knew that Scott was right — he was being _phenomenally_ stupid.

Stiles was tired, though. He was tired of being the odd man out, of not having any worthwhile power, of being assaulted with feelings and sensations and energies he didn’t know how to interpret or handle. As much as he kept a cheerful, sarcastic front up for everyone, he didn’t know how much longer he could do this. The darkness was cinching itself a little tighter around his heart every day, and he knew that if he could just get a handle on his new power — or his newly revealed power — he could do something about the blackout rages that were becoming more frequent and more intense, the nightmares that plagued him every night, and the strange occurrences that kept happening around him without explanation. Waking up to a headache was no fun, but waking up sweaty and shaking with fear, surrounded by the broken remnants of stuff from his room, was even worse. Not only did he _hate_ the fact that he could subconsciously break pencils in his sleep but not while awake, he also hated the fact that his magic had waged a war with inanimate objects without his permission. It was disheartening. Not to mention expensive.

Aria had explained that it was untapped energies leaking from his body when his guard wasn’t up enough to stop them. She’d begun to teach Stiles the basics: intention, spell casting, interpretation of energies. But it had been like exercising atrophied muscles, so far beyond difficult that even the simplest action left him sweaty and breathless and even a little in pain.

Okay. _A lot_ in pain.

A sharp nip at his ankle had Stiles jerking even more fully awake, groaning in absolute misery. He thrashed his exposed foot, then tugged it back under the blanket to hide it from further assault. Not that it did any good, of course, given the fact the his new companion was as stubborn and heartless as any creature Stiles had ever met. And that was saying something.

All the air left Stiles’ lungs in a harsh _whoosh_ as something ridiculously heavy jumped on his back with a heavy thud. 

“Delia!” Stiles protested, trying to twist out from under almost sixty pounds of annoyed German Shepherd. “I’ve had a long weekend, all right? Off!”

True to character, Delia completely ignored him. She whuffed quietly over Stiles’ exposed neck, then stuck her cold nose on his bare, sleep-warmed skin. He shrieked in irritation and pulled his arms free from his tangled blankets to try and push her off. “Seriously! Off! I’ll get up already!”

Delia, annoying but predictable beast that she was, chuffed in what Stiles assumed was victory before pushing off him and jumping to the floor. Were it any other dog, Stiles would have assumed the snuggles on the bed were for affection, but he knew better. Delia was not affectionate. She wasn’t kind, or playful, or ‘man’s best friend’. 

Not that Stiles knew exactly what she was instead, beyond fiercely protective and clingy. She didn’t seem to like anyone, and it sometimes amused Stiles that she growled at Scott whenever he came too close. Only a quick rub behind her left ear soothed her enough not to bite, and only if it were delivered by Stiles. One time, Allison had tried to touch her and Isaac had barely managed to shove Delia away and into Stiles’ arms quick enough for the dog not to draw blood.

Stiles tried valiantly not to show how amused he was by the whole business but was certain he failed. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but it was really, really nice to have someone completely and totally on his side for once. Delia didn’t seem to like him as much as tolerate him, but given that she chose him, and hated everyone else, Stiles still took it as the gift it was. 

Except in moments like this, where he just wanted to _strangle_ her. 

He rolled out of bed, managing a half-hearted glare before it struck him that, despite the pain and noise in his head, this was the best morning he’d had in ages.

“Oh my god,” he said, glare melting into a grin. “Oh my god! No nightmares!” He jumped up and punched the air, shaking his boxer-clad butt in a victory dance that was abruptly stopped when the world spun and gravity did its very best to pull him down. He collapsed on the floor in an almost-naked heap, and for a few moments all he could do was hold his breath and wait for the nausea to pass. 

“Fuck,” he grumbled, gripping at the rug. He heard Delia whine and felt her cool tongue lick at his still tightly-closed eyelids. “All right, so maybe celebration is out.”

Delia growled and lay down pressed close to him, her body’s warmth soothing his tense muscles.  After a few minutes the nausea passed, and Stiles gingerly pushed himself upright. A few more minutes and he was able to stand.

He made his way over to his desk and stared down at where he’d left his phone charging. He debated calling Aria for a few minutes before deciding it was out of the question. Aria had warned him that this would happen, and that it would pass. Calling to whine about the inevitable would only piss her off, and Stiles had already learned that pissing her off was emphatically _not_ something he was interested in. 

With a resigned sigh, Stiles turned to make his way to the bathroom, praising the gods and goddesses for indoor plumbing, water heaters, and ibuprofen.

 

~~~

 

Stiles’ dad was waiting at the kitchen table for him when he finally made his way downstairs. Stiles had done his duty as a son, checking in with his Dad when he’d gotten in last night, achy and miserable and deeply grateful that the red-eye bus from LA to Beacon Hills dropped him off close enough to the house to let him walk off some of the magical buzz that had lingered for the ten hour bus ride. His father had given him a disapproving glance, but hadn’t said much except to remark that there were eyedrops in the bathroom cabinet if Stiles needed them. 

Judging from the look he was getting now, though, Stiles knew that he was in for a lecture. Sure enough, as soon as he’d made a cup of coffee and sat down at the table, his dad took a deep breath that Stiles knew meant _lecture_.

“How was your weekend?”

Stiles blinked blearily at his father, then took a sip of coffee. “Intense,” he said after a moment.

“Intense,” John repeated. “Looks like it.”

Stiles sighed and rubbed a hand through his still shower-damp hair. “Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no. It was just magic.”

“ _Just_ magic,” John said, face betraying his incredulousness. 

“Oh my god, Dad,” Stiles huffed. He grabbed an apple out of the bowl on the table and took a big bite, chewing loudly and messily until he could come up with something better to say. They’d agreed that now that John was in the loop, he needed to _stay_ _there_ in order to undo the damage of years of being lied to by Stiles. What Stiles couldn’t bring himself to say, of course, was that he never once regretted lying to his father. Nor did he regret getting him drunk for information, or listening in on his phone calls, or any one of the other thousand tiny wrongs he’d committed in the name of doing what he needed to. Even now, he had absolutely no intention of telling his father the details of what had happened this weekend. Ever. The basics had the benefit of being true and scary enough to keep John satisfied. 

“First of all, Deaton vouched for her, remember? Told you she was relatively well known in the witchy circles, and wouldn’t hurt me for fear of enough repercussions to send her soul a few thousand years back in karma points?” In point of fact, Deaton had said Aria would never _harm_ Stiles, but it was unlikely that John would catch the semantic slip. There had been plenty of hurting, but only what Stiles agreed to in advance.

“He also said he didn’t trust her,” John said. 

“Deaton trusts absolutely no one,” Stiles shot back bitterly. “If he trusted me even a little bit, maybe he’d be the one showing me how to control the nightmares himself, instead of making me go all the way to LA.”

John held his breath for a moment before letting it out. “I understand why you’re doing what you’re doing, son. But you’re barely 17, and I’m not entirely comfortable with you staying at some random magic shop for a weekend, without any warning, with a complete stranger. And then you come back like this…” He waved a hand at Stiles’ less-than-perfect condition.

Stiles stared at his father, running through a half dozen response before choosing the one most likely to soothe his father while simultaneously not acquiescing his right to learn what he needed.

“Look, Dad, I understand your concern. But let’s face it — I’m not dealing very well. You know I did what I had to do in order to find you, and those actions had consequences.” John flinched and stared down at his hands. _Point_ , Stiles thought sadly. “I need to deal with this in the only way left available to me. So I’m going to take complete advantage of my summer, for once, and spend it on the relentless pursuit of knowledge and control instead of stellar WoW scores.” He quirked a lip as he rotated the apple in his hand. “Seems like you’d think that was an improvement of my time-utilization skills.”

Silently, John finished his coffee and eggs. Stiles finished his apple, and for awhile he thought he wasn’t going to get a response before his father left for work. 

Sensing the tension, Delia limped over to Stiles to flop down at his socked feet. Stiles hid a flinch, not ready yet to reveal his new set of tattoos that matched Aria’s. As it turned out, the disconnect he felt all the time — and even more strongly in the concrete and misery-soaked ground of LA — was common for witches. Concrete wasn’t exactly the best conductor of energy; not only did it fail to conduct, Aria explained, it was also fantastic for absorbing the random thoughts and feelings of the millions of people that walked over it. It messed with a witch’s ability to access natural magic, leaving them to reach for the only easily accessible element left: air. It was disorienting for any magical practitioner, but ten times worse for someone like Stiles, whose powers were set free in the tangles of roots and deep earth, and who had little ability to control his own magic.

“You’re planning on doing this often, then,” John finally said, breaking Stiles from his thoughts. 

“Yes." 

“Stiles…” John tried one more time, then sighed and stood. “Rules. You will always give me more warning than what you pulled in LA. At least a day’s worth. You will never allow yourself to get left without a way to get back. I want you to be able to leave immediately if you need to. Always have your own stuff on hand, and” — his gaze dropped to where Delia was watching him suspiciously — “take Delia with you from now on.”

Stiles straightened in his chair, blinking at his father, completely surprised and not trying to hide it. “What? Really?”

“Do you think I believe for a moment that if I forbid you from this, you’d actually keep in line?” John took his coffee and plate to the sink and washed them. “If I’ve learned anything from this fiasco, it’s just how well you can hide something from me when you put your mind to it. And I don’t want to be the asshole who gives you an ultimatum that I know you won’t choose the right part of.”

Knowing that any denial would be an absolute lie, Stiles gave his father a guilty look. He didn’t think his dad would kick him out for getting a ride on the magic crazy train, but he certainly didn’t want to find out. “Agreed,” he said. 

Though he didn’t look like any of his reservations had been eased, John nodded. “The new deputy I hired is coming in today, so I’m going to be late.” He crossed his arms and gave Stiles a look that he recognized too well. It meant _answer correctly or suffer the consequences_. “Will you be here?”

“Yep. Sure thing, dad. I’m a little drained after this weekend,” Stiles agreed, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “I’m just going to head to Deaton’s for awhile, catch up with Scott while he’s at work. I might stop on the way home to pick up some food, but I don’t see anything more exciting in my future than eating junk and reading.”

“Reading?” John asked as he pulled on his jacket. 

“Aria e-mailed me a few e-pubs that are supposed to be ‘deeply informative, if not a little dull,’ or so she assured me,” Stiles said with a shrug. “But Aria seems to think that any text not heavily illustrated is dull, so we’ll see.”

John opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head. “Magic in the modern age,” he mumbled, then walked back to Stiles to give him an affectionate tug on his neck, ignoring the way Delia tensed beneath him. “Have a good day, kid.”

“You too, Dad,” Stiles said with a smile. 

As soon as John had locked the door behind him, Stiles stood and stretched, happy to realize that the ibuprofen was finally kicking in. “All right, pups,” he said, looking down at Delia. “Wanna see what I learned this weekend?”

Delia looked up at him dispassionately, then started to get to her feet, cast slipping on the hardwood floor.

“No, you stay here. I’m gonna grab my tablet. Be right back.” When Delia laid back down and cocked her head, Stiles laughed. “Hey, you chose me. Downside of being a newbie witch’s pet? You get dual identity status as familiar _and_ guinea pig! Isn’t that great?!” Stiles clapped his hands and spread his arms in the universal sign for ‘surprise!’ 

Delia looked less than impressed.

 

~~~

 

When Stiles almost fell out of his Jeep onto the pavement at Deaton’s, he was man enough to admit that maybe, just maybe, he’d overdone it. The headache that had been chased off by medicine had returned in full force, and this time the number of racquetball players seemed to have doubled. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret it. He _had_ to know if he could successful plan and execute small bits of magic himself, without Aria’s guidance. True, the world was all spinny, and he had to lean on the jeep to balance himself and hold onto Delia’s ruff to ground himself, but Delia could take it. 

Because he’d healed her leg.

He laughed in absolute delight, though he cut himself off after only a moment because of the way it seemed to make everything shake. Frustrated, Stiles took a deep breath. He hadn’t felt quite so bad on the drive over. Had the consequences just taken longer to manifest themselves than the instant whiplash he’d expected, or was it the motion of the car that had done him in? He would never have driven anywhere like this, too afraid of wrapping his precious Jeep around a tree to dare take the risk.

Frowning, Stiles toed off his shoes, then let go of Delia long enough to fumble at peeling off his socks and bandages. He stumbled the few feet from the paved lot to the grassy front of the building. The moment his bare, tattooed feet touched the earth again, electricity seemed to burn through his veins, running from his toes and up through his body until he no longer felt like a spinning compass needle. The headache was still there, but Stiles could live with that.

Stiles tossed his shoes, socks, and bandages in the Jeep and grinned triumphantly at Delia. “Shall we?”

Delia flicked her tail, obviously unimpressed, and led Stiles into the clinic.

Apparently early on a Monday was a busy time for the vet’s office, and no less than six faces turned to peer at him as he walked in the door. He recognized two — Ms. Rickard, who ran the post office, and Mrs. Donalds, whose two young sons were known as the most adorable children to ever earn the label 'hellspaw'”. Stiles resigned himself to telling his dad about the tattoos sooner, rather than later, lest rumors reach him first. He was much less likely to get yelled at if he told his father himself.

Someone muttered “Ugh, that’s just _unsanitary_ ,” behind his back as he pushed the gate open to let Delia into the back, but he ignored it in favor of heading to the examination room. 

“Hey, you’re early,” Scott said, head down over a raggedy-looking tabby who was laying out in a shock of orange and white fur on the cold steel.

“Didn’t end up sleeping in as much as I wanted to,” Stiles huffed, shooting a look at Delia. True to form, the dog ignored him in favor of curling up at the door. “Don’t lay there. Deaton will accidentally smack you with the door when he comes in.”

“She’s just a dog, Stiles,” Scott said with a flicker of exasperation as Delia ignored him. “She doesn’t actually understand you.”

“Really, Scott?” Stiles leaned against the examination table and raised his eyebrows. “She picked me, which means she’s at least _a little_ not normal. What makes you think she isn’t something special?”

Scott glared resentfully over at Delia. “Oh, she’s something _special_ all right.” Then his expression changed, morphing into surprise, then dismay. “Special or not, Stiles, she’s not ready to have her cast off. It’s only been eight days.”

“Dude! I did that!” Stiles exclaimed, unable to help the grin that spread across his face. 

“Well, obviously,” Scott said in frustration. “Those things are made to be chew-proof.”

“No, Scott, I did that! I healed her!” 

“What?”

“A little bit of concentration, a lot of energy, just the right tools, and bam!” He smacked his hands on the table, then winced regretfully when the cat made an unhappy, tired mewling noise. Delia perked up and stared at the cat with predatory interest, so Stiles moved to block her line of sight. The last thing he needed was to have whoever this kitty’s proud, concerned owner was reporting Delia to the Sheriff's Office for attempted pet murder. _That_ wouldn’t end well, because there was no way Stiles was letting anyone take Delia. “Chill, beast,” he threw over his shoulder. Much to his surprised delight, Delia settled her head on her paws and closed her eyes.

“Do you think that would work with Derek?” he asked Scott with a grin.

Scott got that same expression he always wore when Derek was mentioned these days. “He’s been gone for almost a month without so much as a text to let us know he’s alive,” he said. “I doubt you’ll get the chance to find out.”

“You seriously don’t think he’ll come back, do you?” Stiles asked, peering at the cat instead of meeting his best friend’s eyes.

“Why would he?”

That hurt more than Stiles would ever admit. Fortunately, he was saved from having to answer by Deaton’s timely arrival. Delia just barely managed to scramble away before the door swung into the space where she’d just been lying, and Stiles gave her an _I told you, therefore I am unsympathetic_ look.

“Stiles,” Deaton said with his usual detachment. “Welcome back. How was your weekend?”

“Informative,” Stiles responded easily, tracking Deaton’s movements. He resisted the urge to curl his toes under his feet when he saw Deaton staring at them and squared his shoulders.

“I can see that,” Deaton responded. His gaze flicked over to Delia, but he didn’t say anything more before he moved to Scott’s side. “Who have we got here?”

Stiles tuned out as Scott and Deaton began discussing Miss Frizzle, the unhappy tabby on the table, and sat in the corner of the room on the floor. Delia collapsed on his feet and kept a wary eye on Deaton as Stiles settled. It felt oddly anti-climactic, coming here, feeling like practically a new person — a more _capable_ person — only to have it be met with silence by both Scott and Deaton. He blamed the tiny bit of himself that still wanted Deaton’s trust and respect for the bitterness that threatened to swell inside him.

He took his phone out of his pocket and fiddled, suddenly struck with an overwhelming urge to text the one person who he knew _for sure_ wouldn’t be the least bit impressed with what he’d learned, what he’d done. And like Scott had said, it had been a month of total radio silence. That was plenty of time to respect Derek's right to whatever breakdown he and Cora were currently indulging in. Right?

Never having been one for impulse control, Stiles unlocked his phone and opened a new messaged to Derek.

_You and Scott aren’t the only ones sporting quality ink anymore. — SS_

Stiles fell asleep, listening to Deaton and Scott speak in undertones over the sick cat, waiting for a response from Derek that never came.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today my city shut down due to ice storms, so the boys and I stayed homed in lazy luxury:) Bonus celebratory chapter for days off!

**July 8, 2013**

It took only a month before Stiles really started wondering if he was making the right decision after all. He’d gone back to stay with Aria just a week after his initial visit, and it was just as bad for him as it had been the first time. Maybe even worse, if the fact that he spent an extra day recovering in the back office of the shop while Aria went back to work was anything to go by.

Aria had laughed at him, said that she wasn’t as young and virile as a teenager anymore, and recommended another mage for Stiles to train with when he was ready for another round. She warned him that Thomas wasn’t as generous or kind as she was — a statement Stiles had snorted at, because… _seriously?_ — then handed over a business card and sent Stiles home.

Stiles gave himself three days to recover at home before he dragged himself out of bed and started mapping his trip to where Thomas lived. Corvallis, Oregon was a only five hour trip from Beacon Hills, and the fact that it was three hours closer than LA, and north, helped paved the way for his father’s approval. Once Deaton had given his stamp of approval — _Indeed, I do know of Thomas. No, he won’t murder Stiles in his sleep and sell his liver on black market, Sheriff —_ Stiles was packed and on his way within a few hours.

It was Thomas who made him come to realize the _true_ nature of magical instruction. When he got home a week later, Stiles was broken and bleeding and more marked up than anyone expected — and the marks weren’t just tattoos. Stiles did his very best to hide the story of his stay under fabric and diversions, but it was summertime in California. He wasn’t very successful, and no matter how many reassurances he gave his pack and his father, their concern was a constant, annoying weight until he was glad to leave for the next name Thomas had given him.

By the time the end of June had rolled around, Stiles had apprenticed with Aria, Thomas, Sammy, Layla, and Quinten. Each one left him more marked, more scarred than the one before, but it was always worth it. Stiles’ control got tighter, his knowledge grew deeper, and in just a month Stiles felt the Nemeton’s darkness around his heart start to loosen its hold. It wasn’t that the darkness was lessening. It simply seemed to have less control over him.

The first time someone — Allison, in fact — asked him if he thought, maybe, he was going too fast, he merely laughed. “I’ve been nightmare-free for 26 days and counting,” he scoffed, waving his hand. “I’m obviously doing it right.” She merely looked at the pinprick scars on his hand, dotted along the veins that ran over the top, and nodded uncertainly.

Then came Scott’s concern, and Deaton’s. By the time Stiles’ dad expressed his worry, Stiles had lost all patience.

“What do you want from me, Dad?” he shouted, fresh off a harsh, three-day vision quest in Charleston Canyon, Nevada. He was more than a little buzzed off the magic he’d learned to plunder in the waterfalls there and out of empathy. “I only have three months for this. No, two, now. School ended in May and starts again in August. Would you rather I took time off from my education for this?”

Stiles saw the tightening of his father’s features, and it didn’t take long for him to figure out what was going on in John’s head. He wasn’t just concerned that Stiles was in danger, or in over his head. He was worried that Stiles was going to lose himself in the magic and maybe not return to school at all.

“Stiles,” John started, eyes fixed on the new white marks that decorated the side of Stiles’ neck. Stiles hadn’t, in fact, wanted this particular scarification at all — not just because of the placement, but because of what they meant. They branded him as a practitioner of Egyptian curse magic, which Stiles had been tricked into agreeing to. The pattern was small and mostly tucked behind his ear, but it looked enough like a snake that it never failed to catch anyone's attention. Damn Quinten's quick tongue and quicker hand.

“Dad, _please_ ,” Stiles begged, looking away from his father. He’d only been home for three hours, and he was barely holding on long enough to save his breakdown until after his father went to work. Not for the first time since he’d begun this journey, Stiles felt used. Violated. But he’d be damned if he lay any of that burden on his father — and not just because he didn’t want John to carry any extra weight in his heart.

Stiles knew that, even with what happened in Charleston Canyon, and later, back in Quinten’s home, he wasn’t going to quit.

 

**July 10, 2013**

Scott handed Stiles another bottle of beer, and Stiles took it gratefully. It was a familiar enough ploy — get the object of your inquiry drunk, then ply him for information — that Stiles wasn’t fooled in the least. Not that it stopped him from, in fact, getting drunk anyway.

To be fair, Stiles had seen this coming.

“It’s for your own good,” Scott said as he helped Stiles up to lean against the tree trunk.

Stiles chuckled, looking out at sleepy Beacon Hills. “I have to ask, Scott. What on earth made you feel like it was the best idea to get me all liquored up _at the edge of a cliff_?” He tipped the bottle back — his fourth or fifth, he couldn’t quite be sure — and giggled. “Not that I don’t like it here. I mean, this is where we had Jackson chained up and hilariously scared of us for awhile. Good times.”

“I wouldn’t let you anywhere near the edge, Stiles, and you know it. And even if my attention slipped, I doubt Delia’s would.” Scott gave the dog at Stiles’ feet a begrudging look of solidarity, then narrowed his eyes at Stiles. “That’s only your fourth. How are you so drunk already?”

Stiles pulled the bottle back and stared at it suspiciously. “Good question.” Then his eyes widened and he shook his head. “Dude, that is _so_ unfair!”

“What?”

“One of them — Layla, I think — mentioned that my tolerance for all things unnatural or impure would start to disintegrate.”

“One of them?” Scott gave Stiles a look that was part disapproval, part pleading. “You can’t even keep them straight anymore?”

“Alcohol in the bloodstream probably falls into the category of both unnatural and impure, so it has an intensified effect.” Stiles shook his head miserably. “I tried to grab a burger at Micky D’s on the way home from Charleston, you know. Had to pull over to vomit it back up.”

“You blew chunks over a burger? _You_?”

Stiles shuddered. “Do you have any idea how many hormones, chemicals, fillers, and preservatives there are in a fast food hamburger? If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you. But trust me, I think they’re off my list of ‘acceptable food products’. I even gave Delia the fries without eating even one.”

Scott stared at Stiles in horror. “Really?”

“It figures, ya know? You get superpowers and the ability to eat or drink anything you want with just a couple of exceptions. Me?” Stiles frowned and took another drink of his beer. “I get superpowers and lose all tolerance to anything not yanked directly from the ground.”

“Did you?” Scott asked after a moment. “Get superpowers, I mean.”

Stiles looked up at Scott and raised his eyebrow in disbelief.

“I mean, I remember what you did for Delia. And you’ve done a few tricks, like light a couple fires, float a couple pencils, slam the door shut in my face without leaving the bed when I tried to wake you up that one time. But is little stuff like worth” — he waved a hand at Stiles — “all _this_?”

Stiles rolled his head back, shutting his eyes when skull met trunk with a hard _thunk_. He felt the rage tingling at the base of his neck and in his knuckles, but even in his inebriated state it was easy to mentally wrap it all up like so much yarn and tuck it safely away.

It was true, after all. Stiles had learned so, so much, but he wasn’t in the habit of showing it off. Not only was the cost of working magic painful on a personal level — at least, it was to someone who was still so new at it — but Stiles was generally too tired between trainings to flex his new metaphysical muscles. Stiles stroked his fingers through Delia’s scruff as he tried to think of what to say to Scott.

“There’s more,” Stiles finally admitted. “A lot more. But witches aren’t magicians, Scott. We can’t pull magic out of thin air. There is a cost in personal energy which is made even worse when the magic performed doesn’t have purpose.”

“What does energy have to do with purpose?”

“It’s a universal balance thing,” Stiles said with a shrug. “If I pull a rabbit out of thin air — which I totally could, by the way — I’m not balancing something. I’m not making up for an unnatural deficit of fluffy cottontails in the Preserve. I’m not countering an overabundance of, uh, soil-destroying carrots or... whatever. I’m not feeding a starving hawk. I’ve done nothing but expend energy for the sake of showing off, which means the energy comes from me.”

“Okay…” Scott nodded his head in agreement, but Stiles could see that he didn’t really understand.

“Look, Scott, all magic is seriously, seriously transactional. Think of it like shopping. You buy a six pack of beer, you give the checkout dude ten bucks. Beer for money. Magic is the same way, but the currency is energy. If the magic is for the Preserve, the Preserve is the one who pays up. Extra energy drawn from where it shouldn’t be anyway. Rabbit for healthy predators.”

Scott nodded again, expression clearing in understanding.

“Most of what I’m learning right now isn’t how to work spells themselves. It’s how to feel along ley lines of energy and figure out where those excesses and deficits are. Only I screw up a lot. I mean seriously... _A lot_. Which is why I’m so tired all the time. I use my own energy waaaay too much. Plus, there is the cost I pay for the teaching itself.”

Scott’s head snapped up to glare at Stiles, and Stiles winced. _Oops_. He hadn’t meant to tell Scott that. He hadn’t intended to tell _anyone_ that.

“Cost?” Scott demanded.

Stiles sighed. “These guys aren’t teaching me out of the goodness of their hearts, Scott. Like I said, magic is transactional. And though you can steal energy if you really want to, magic works a million times better when the energies are freely given. It’s a… uh, flow thing.”

“Flow thing.”

“Like tapping into a river versus trying to suck the water out of a dam with a pump.”

“But why do they need your energy if they’re so much better at, uh, feeling along the ley lines?”

Stiles swallowed and looked down at his now heavily-marked hands, scarred knuckles white where they gripped the beer bottle. This was not a discussion he wanted to have. Especially not with Scott.

Scott seemed to catch on anyway. “It’s because the magic they need you for isn’t for some universal balance thing, is it? It’s for pulling rabbits out of thin air for the fun of it.” Scott’s voice was soft with understanding and something darker. Perhaps even a bit vengeful.

“Not for the fun of it," Stiles corrected, drawing meaningless shapes in the condensation of his beer bottle. "Witches don’t waste energy on pointless magic. There’s always a reason.”

“A good reason?”

“The reason is always good if you ask the one who cast the spell,” Stiles said, and unconsciously reached up to touch the hieroglyphs burned just under his ear.

Scott suddenly threw his own beer bottle into the woods, and Stiles winced as it smashed spectacularly against a tree. “You need to stop, Stiles! You disappear for days at a time and come back with scars and tattoos that my Mom can’t fix because they’ve healed so quickly that they’re already permanent even after just a few days. You always look like you’ve gone through hell and you’re never actually happy or excited. You don’t show off, and you don’t talk about it. You! And now you tell me you’re basically being…” Scott’s voice broke mid-rant and his shoulders stiffened. “Used for your energy.”

The words hadn’t been said, but Stiles could feel them. Hell, he’d already though them himself. More than once. _Energy raped_ , he thought bitterly. _Magic whore_. “It doesn’t work like that, Scott. Everything I’ve given, I’ve given freely.”

Scott growled, and Delia lifted her head, bared her teeth at Scott, and growled right back.

“And is it worth it?” Scott asked after a moment, expression dark.

 _Not yet_ , Stiles thought. “Yes,” he answered instead.

If Scott heard the skip of his heart, he didn’t say anything.

 

~~~

 

_It hurt this time. I mean, it always hurts, but this time I wasn’t ready for it. I was tricked. Scott thinks this means I need to stop. I’m not going to stop. I feel powerful. — SS_

 

~~~

 

_I think I understand you better now. — SS_

 

 

**July 13, 2013**

Stiles never got a response from Derek, and somehow that made texting him so much easier. Though Stiles could admit to himself that Derek probably had gotten rid of his phone entirely, the small thread of possibility kept Stiles sending little messages here and there when there was absolutely no one he could talk to.

And the fact was that he _couldn’t_ talk to anyone. His father radiated concern all the time, and Scott angry disapproval. Lydia was gone, spending time in Europe with her parents. And none of his “mentors” wanted anything to do with him after they sent him home. Not that Stiles would trust any of them with his secret doubts and insecurities, anyway. Aria was the kindest of the lot, and no one could accuse her of anything but amused disinterest.

So Stiles sent random texts to Derek — to the ether, really — that he kept carefully detail-free just in case Derek’s number had been recycled and some stranger was getting off on Stiles’ crazy.

The fact that he didn’t get a response, didn’t expect a response, made it easy.

 

**July 16, 2013**

The first time one of the predicted monsters came to visit Beacon Hills, Stiles was in Chicago, training in the art of _kotodama_ with a deceptively tiny, deceptively ancient-looking woman named Sokura. Stiles was pleasantly surprised to find that language came easily for him, though perhaps the fact that Sokura smacked him upside the head, _hard_ , any time he mispronounced something was excellent motivation.

He was in the middle of whispering the longest, most powerful summoning he’d ever tried when his phone went off in his pocket. Sokura smacked him, extra hard this time, and left him to answer it under the guise of making tea. Stiles had, in fact, charmed his phone into silence unless the incoming call had desperation clinging to the intent, so he didn’t hesitate to answer it.

“We need you,” Allison huffed breathlessly.

Sokura, under the recommendation of one of Stiles’ former mentors, had flown Stiles and Delia into Chicago, but there was no way he was going to wait to fly back. He closed his eyes, felt along the channels of energy, and found that the chaos in Beacon Hills had upset the natural balance enough that there was more than enough energy to justify a quick transport spell.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he assured her, then hung up the phone before she could ask. He got up from the circle Sokura had painted on the floor around him and carefully scratched a line through it before exiting. He sought out Sokura in her tiny kitchen, Delia padding lazily behind him.

“I have to go.”

Sokura frowned. “You haven’t paid in full yet, and I haven’t taught you everything I promised I would.”

“I’ll come back,” Stiles assured her. Despite the constant knuckles to the temple, Stiles actually did like Sokura. She was straightforward and open, and didn’t look at him with a predator’s gaze.

Sokura frowned, and Stiles sighed. He held out his arm, and without hesitation, Sokura cut a mark of temporary ownership into his forearm. It sparked blue and healed immediately, and Stiles flinched as the binding roared through his blood. It didn’t bind anything but the half-learned _kotodama_ magic, but he still felt it everywhere. He sighed and shook his arm ruefully.

“Right. Okay, then. I’ll be back when I’m done with whatever the latest crisis is.”

Sokura hummed and nodded. She poured some of the freshly brewed tea into a porcelain travel mug and slipped on the rubber top. “Super-heated infusion of free-radicals and tannin, just the thing for healing the synapses. Useful after a quick relocation spell.”

Stiles stared at her, then started laughing as he retrieved his backpack. “Dr. Who? Really? My awe and respect for you just grew tenfold.”

Sokura laughed and trailed him to the living room. “We’ll have a marathon when you get back. Something tells me you’re going to need the downtime before we start up again.”

“Wish me luck!” Stiles said with a grin, hiding a flinch at her prediction. Knowing Sokura, the _something_ she was getting her information from wasn’t mere intuition, but a lot more concrete.

“ _Gokoūn o inorimasu_ , Stilinski- _kun_.”

 

~~~

 

Derek took a deep breath, hand braced against the door of his old house. It was too much at all once — the smell of blood, of fire, of ash, of old magic — but he was a fan of ripping off the band-aid rather than peeling it off slowly. The faster he let the smells overwhelm and saturate him, the sooner he would acclimate and become desensitized.

The first round of paperwork had gone smoothly, and Derek had honestly wondered why in the hell Anna had required his physical presence. There had been explanations and documents to sign, of course, but nothing that couldn’t have happened over a phone or with a fax or, hell, even with a notarized signature. He planned on asking her about it later.

His flight back didn’t leave until the next morning, so Derek had headed back here to decide what his next step should be. Technically, he should have checked in with the local Alpha before doing anything, but Scott didn’t know that particular tradition so Derek hadn’t bothered. Not that he didn’t want to see Scott; even after everything that had happened, Derek still felt an older brother-like responsibility to the young alpha.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and started scrolling through the texts that had stopped him from talking to anyone yet.

_You and Scott aren’t the only ones sporting quality ink anymore. — SS_

_OK, wow. That was not what I expected. This guy is so not Dumbledore. More like a selfish, magical version of Data. — SS_

_lookit all the pretty colorss -ss_

_i wonder if you red? i like red. i think i’m white — Ss_

_Wasn’t drunk. I’ll tell you later, when my brain isn’t leaking out through my ears. — SS_

_Dude. Auras. — SS_

_At least your type aren’t the only ones who can heal anymore. — SS_

_Dude. No more artificial anything?! Holy fuck that’s not fair! Man cannot live on naturally-colored food dyes alone! — SS_

_This guy creeps me out. — SS_

_Vision quest. No, seriously. In Nevada. I’ll let you know what I see when I come back, if I’m not dead from heat exhaustion. — SS_

_It hurt this time. I mean, it always hurts, but this time I wasn’t ready for it. I was tricked, actually. Scott thinks this means I need to stop. I’m not going to stop. I feel powerful. — SS_

_I think I understand you better now. — SS_

Derek scrubbed a hand through his hair and shoved the phone back in his pocket.

The texts had all come over the course of the last month, and Derek had thought them amusing until the last few. Then he realized what Stiles must be doing — learning magic, but not with Deaton. It meant that Deaton wasn’t going to train Stiles to be a druid, or Scott's emissary.

Which made absolutely no sense. Stiles had manipulated mountain ash and had successfully participated in a few spells and rituals by now. He was trusted implicitly by Scott, who would _need_ his own emissary.

So what had happened? Had Deaton decided that, now that there was no longer a Hale pack, he’d shift allegiances to the next one to take over Beacon Hills? Was it job security, to push Stiles away so Deaton was the only left to fill the role? Or did Stiles reject the offer of pursuing druidism to pursue witchcraft instead? Druids favored balance and witches favored power; Derek could see how Stiles might be tempted to choose the latter over the former, given the sorts of things they’d had to face in Beacon Hills.

Apparently no one had actually clued Stiles in to what he was getting himself into, however. Derek remembered hearing his parents dealing with witches at various times during his childhood. They’d regarded witches with distrust and derision, only calling on them when necessary and making them leave as soon as their jobs were done. Derek had always thought of his parents as tolerant people, so he’d always assumed that witches were at the very bottom of the supernatural hierarchy — even below humans.

But this was _Stiles_. Stiles, who certainly wasn’t a slimy little magical trick-turner. _Stiles_ , who was strong and brave and deeply intelligent. _Stiles_ , who was getting hurt. A lot.

If Derek saw any of the pack right now, he knew damn well the first question he asked would be “What the hell is going on with Stiles?” But that would make them realize something that Derek had barely admitted to himself — that Stiles was important. Important to _Derek._ And as much as things had improved for him in the last month, Derek still wasn’t in a place to be anything to anyone.

No matter how much he wanted to wrap Stiles up and steal him away to the haven he’d created in Brooklyn.

Before he could follow that thought any further, before he could argue with himself any more, a new tangle of scents drifted through the trees and across the porch.

_Of-fucking-course._

 

~~~

 

“Argo-whatnow?” Stiles asked, eyebrows raised. A furious howl ripped through the woods, and everyone turned to glare in the direction it had come from.

“Argopelter,” Allison replied. “According to the bestiary, as copied from a 1910 book on American folklore, it’s…” She hesitated and looked at Isaac.

“A bigfoot version of Slenderman?” he suggested.

“Right,” Scott said, with a frown directed at Isaac. Stiles wondered if it was because of what Isaac had said, or the fact that he and Allison were standing so close together. “It likes to use trees like shotputs. We don’t know where in the hell it came from, or what it wants, but all we’ve been able to do is keep chasing it away from town and back into the Preserve.”

“No matter what we do to it, it doesn’t go down,” Allison added. “I’ve shot it. They’ve bitten it, slashed it, tripped it up and clawed out its throat and it just gets up, hides until it’s healed, and comes back for more.”

Stiles nodded, taking in the worried and expectant faces of his friends. Scott, Isaac, Allison… he couldn’t help but feel a pang at how few they were now. It wasn’t as if all the supernatural badasses that had filled Beacon Hills had ever really played together nicely, but there still had been a certain safety in knowing that, when push came to shove, Derek, Erica, Boyd, and Lydia could be counted on to jump into the fray.

“Okay,” Stiles said with a sigh. “I need some time. How much longer before it shows up again?”

“About an hour,” Scott replied quickly. “We just got done with our latest round of ‘beat up the ape-thing’ before you, uh, got here, and it always seems to take about an hour for it to heal up and come back.”

Stiles nodded. “I’m going to set up. When I’m done, I’ll call you and tell you where to direct it. Get it to me, and I’ll make it go away.”

The others exchanged hesitant looks, but nodded anyway. Stiles felt a sharp twinge of annoyance at their hesitation, but ignored it in favor or turning to stride deeper into the woods, Delia hot on his heels, fur ruffled and teeth bared. Fortunately, Stiles grabbed his backpack before he left Sokura’s and therefore didn’t need to go home for supplies. Not that it would have taken long, of course.

And god, how priceless their amazement was at his sudden appearance in the woods.

It took less a mile before Stiles found just the right convergence of energies to set his trap. Distantly, he thought it was strange how calm and collected he felt, but he chalked it up to the fact that this was what he’d been training for. All the exchanges, the highs, the marks and blood and pain. Compared to what he’d been exposed to during his short apprenticeship, a tall, skinny Bigfoot didn’t scare him in the least.

Stiles shed his plaid and his tee, leaving him shirtless and, as always these days, barefoot in the warm soil of the woods. He drew an athame from his bag, this one spelled for containment magic, and cut a thin line in his hand. Then he drew a massive circle in the dirt, chanting a repeat of the three most powerful containment spells he knew. As his blood dripped down his hand and the blade into the ground, Stiles felt the push and pull of power exchange. The argopelter didn’t belong here, and the Preserve was happy to give Stiles everything he needed to get rid of it. The willing rush of energies, brought up from deep in the ground, spun through Stiles’ body, and only the curl of his tattooed feet in the dirt kept him grounded enough to not simply float away on the bliss of pure, freely-given energy.

A twisted part of Stiles hoped that once this beast was taken care of, the next wouldn’t be too far behind. This was fun. More than fun. This was _intoxicating_.

By the time Stiles had texted the gang a quick _Follow the scent of sage. — SS_ , his vision was blurred with a shimmer of white magic and he was trembling with the flood of power that ran through him. It could have been moments or hours later that he heard the snap, crackle, pop of branches and underbrush that meant a creature familiar with the forest was running through it nearly silently, but Stiles wasn’t afraid. He was ready.

The thing that emerged from the trees just in front of Stiles was horrifying in its grotesqueness. Whatever thoughts he had of big, fuzzy monkeys were quickly evaporated in the face of the thin, twisted, long-limbed monstrosity in front of him. Isaac’s description was pretty much perfect; it was a toothy, razor-backed, furry version of slenderman.

Stiles backed up slowly from his position in the middle of the circle, giving only the quickest glance to the wolves and Allison before the surprising speed of the monster caught his attention. He barely had time to think _damn, it’s fast_ before it was on him, long arms swinging wildly to try and snatch Stiles up. He managed to duck and roll out of the way before the thing could decapitate him, but he wasn’t quite ready to leave the circle yet. Only through a convenient bit of well-timed flailing did Stiles manage to swipe his still-bleeding hand over the spiky fur without getting impaled by sharp claws. He shouted in triumph and stood to sprint out of the circle, only to catch a foot to the shoulder.

A series of howls echoed in the clearing around them, and Stiles crashed to the ground knowing that the wolves had just run nose-first into the barrier of mountain ash he’d set up outside the circle. He knew they were going to be pissed at him for it, but if any of them had charged to his aid, they would have seriously messed up his magic.

“I’m fine,” he shouted, waving his good arm before putting pressure on the wound. He froze then, staring at the argopelter, who had frozen as Stiles’ blood made its way through its system. It hissed as Stiles tensed to move, its long arms slicing through the air in irritation. Stiles had to get out of there to finish the spell, but though the argopelter didn’t attack, it didn’t seem willing to let Stiles go, either.

He was just about to ask if anyone else had any great ideas when a sharp bark caught his attention. Stiles grinned in triumph.

“You’re in trouble now, bitch,” he snarked at the monster just as Delia leapt over the twin ash and blood circles and onto the argopelter’s neck. It screeched in pain and indignation as Delia’s sharp teeth bit into the soft flesh under its jaw, and Stiles used the distraction to run out of the circle. The creature wrapped one of its long limbs around Delia’s small body to rip her off it, then tossed her with a fury that would have killed her if Stiles hadn’t immediately brought his hands up to cushion the air around her. She stopped short of crashing into the trunk of a very old oak tree, and Stiles lowered her carefully to the ground with his magic.

The argopelter screeched again and launched itself at Stiles, but it bounced off the containment spell and hit the ground with an earth-shaking thump. Stiles laughed and edged around to gloat at the wolves, though he didn’t take his eyes off his captive.

“Not bad, right?”

“Except for the part where it almost killed you!” Scott objected, words stilted as they passed through his fangs.

Stiles shrugged and reached down to stroke his hands through Delia’s fur. “I owe you _so_ much bacon, girl.”

She huffed a sound that sounded suspiciously like “ _obviously_ ”, and Stiles laughed. Then he let go of her and reached forward, calling on the power of his blood on and in the creature’s body to manipulate it. He pulled his hand up and watched with satisfaction as the beast rose several feet in the air, whipping its freakish arms and legs angrily as it left the ground.

“Hmmm…” Stiles hummed thoughtfully as he followed the energy between them, feeling out the metaphysical makeup of the argopelter. It was a frantic, angry, untamed sort of energy, and no matter how much he explored Stiles couldn’t find any reason, or at least any conscious intention, for it to be here.

Not that it really mattered at the moment. Stiles just needed to decide what to do with it. Kill it? Transport it somewhere where it wouldn’t be able to harm anyone?

Use it?

There was great power in sacrifice, Stiles knew, and he could think of so many ways he could use its energy for the greater good. A non-sentient supernatural with speed, power, and fury? The world turned hazy white again as he thought about the possibilities, the most tempting of which was to use the argopelter’s energy to carve a couple hundred protection charms simultaneously in the trees around Beacon Hills.

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” said a familiar voice behind him.

Stiles couldn’t help it — he laughed, the sound completely free of humor. “Why not?” he asked, turning to stare at Derek. At his feet, Delia growled and took on a defensive stance, ruff spiking and teeth bared.

Derek took a step back, eyes narrowed. “You’ve changed.”

The argopelter raked its claws barrier, and Stiles flinched as the metaphysical impact ripped through his thin frame. He turned back to where the beast was clearly losing its mind in its tiny prison.

“Scott? I can kill it, use it, or set it free in the Yukon. Opinion?”

“It’s fast, and determined,” Allison said quietly. “Even if you, uh, transport it there, it would probably just come back within a couple weeks.”

“Come back for _what_?” Scott asked with irritation. “What the hell does it have against Beacon Hills?”

“The Nemeton,” Stiles suggested after a moment. “This is what Deaton was warning us against.”

“Kill it,” Allison urged.

The creature scraped at the circle again, and this time Stiles felt a crack in the containment. It spiked up from the ground like lightening, a brief flare of blue and white light that Stiles knew everyone could see because of the way the flash reflected in their eyes. He felt a drip on his top lip as he blinked, trying to shove away the pain of the assault on his spell.

“If you let me give a little ritual panache to its death, I can use it to cast some serious, and permanent, protection charms around Beacon Hills,” Stiles suggested mildly. Everyone turned to stare at him, and he self-consciously wiped away the blood that was dripping from his nose.

“Don’t,” Derek demanded. “You don’t know enough about it to do something like that and have it go off flawlessly. It's too big a risk.”

Stiles glared at Derek, but before he could say something stupid — like, _you’re not the alpha anymore, asshole_ — Scott cut in.

“It won’t be the last, Stiles. Let’s kill this one, then later we’ll talk about what you want to do next time.”

Stiles cocked his head at Scott, wondering if he should defy him just for the sake of it. Stiles hadn’t minded being seen as one of the betas before, with Scott as the all-powerful Alpha over them, when it seemed pointless argue because Stiles had no power. But now that he _did_ have power — quite a lot of it, actually — he didn’t want Scott to think he could just order Stiles around. They hadn’t really had time to have that conversation yet, the one where Stiles declared himself a free agent who, while always having the best interests of the pack in mind, didn’t actually owe them anything. He loved Scott, would die for him to protect him, but sometimes he needed to protect Scott from his own moral stupidity.

But there wasn’t time for that now. Stiles _had_ asked Scott’s opinion, after all. It also helped soothe Stiles’ ruffled feathers that there was an undisguised hint of pleading in Scott’s attempted-order.

“Sure thing, boss,” he said cheerfully. He lifted his arm, locked his hand in a fist, and twisted his wrist. The sound of the argopelter’s neck snapping cracked like a gunshot through the forest, and the creature fell to the ground in a graceless heap. The containment spell broke instantly, and Stiles’ head snapped back at the backlash. It hurt like holy hell, and Stiles couldn’t help the cry that escaped him.

Everything went bright white for long seconds, and Stiles felt the warm pressure of a hand wrapping around his shoulder to steady him. But at the moment it was too much. _Everything_ was too much.

Stiles snagged into the energy dispersal and used it transport himself and Delia out of there. He had a moment to think that perhaps, in his current state, it wasn’t the wisest decision to fling himself magically to his favorite spot at the edge of the cliff, but he felt himself pass out on the cold ground before the worry could take him.


	4. Chapter 4

**July 16, 2013**

By the time Stiles woke up, darkness had descended on Beacon Hills. He opened his eyes to the glitter of the town underneath him, close enough to the edge of the cliff that he had a momentary sensation of floating. He snatched his hand from the edge, where it had dangled freely, and groaned at the itchy feeling of newly-healed wounds in his head.

“You’re an idiot.”

Stiles rolled onto his hands and knees — away from the cliff edge — and pushed himself up to a kneeling position. After a few moments, his eyes adjusted to the dark and Stiles could make out the shape of Derek sitting crosslegged just a few feet in front of him.

“I didn’t know humans could make their eyes glow,” Derek added.

Stiles blinked, clearing away the white haze that he hadn’t even noticed overtaking his vision. “Where’s Delia?”

Derek looked confused, and Stiles had a moment’s panic as he imagined accidentally dropping her over the cliff edge before a soft _whuff_ caught his attention. Delia nudged her cold nose on his wrist from where she was laying next to him. No matter how much he knew she’d hate it, Stiles wrapped his arms around Delia and buried his nose in her hair. “Sorry, gorgeous. That was a little too close.”

She huffed in irritation but didn’t move.

“When did you get a dog?”

“I didn’t. She followed me home from Deaton’s one day. She got me, I guess.”

Derek made a noise of acknowledgement, then stood and reached for Stiles. Delia pulled away from Stiles to snap at Derek, whose eyes flashed blue as he growled in return.

Stiles chuckled and pulled himself to his feet. “She’s very protective. Isn’t it awesome?”

Derek growled again and turned to walk away. Stiles got the feeling he was supposed to follow, but he hesitated, twitching uncertainly. “Great talk,” he yelled after the werewolf’s retreating form. “Nice seeing you, too!”

“Come on, idiot,” Derek huffed, rolling his shoulders in irritation. Stiles suppressed a squeak and almost tripped over himself in the effort to follow.

“What are you doing here? Are you back? Like, _back_ back? Where’s Cora?”

“Nice to see that at least some things haven’t changed,” Derek called over his shoulder. Stiles was tempted to pick up a rock and throw it at him, but the sight of what Derek was striding towards stopped him in his tracks. 

“My Jeep!” Stiles cried cheerfully. It had been _weeks_ since he’d had the opportunity to drive her, and he gave her a quick hug as soon as he was in snuggling distance. Then he turned and glared at Derek. “How did you get my keys?”

Derek gave him a pinched _bitch, please_ sort of look, watching as Stiles scrambled up the bumper and onto the hood. There was something about the energy of his car that soothed him; he’d owned it long enough, and loved it enough, that it hummed with a grounding power that made Stiles feel like his batteries were being charged. He leaned against the windshield, folding his arms under his head, and closed his eyes. 

“Thanks, man,” Stiles muttered gratefully. The hood of the truck dipped and popped when Delia leapt up to join him, settling heavily over his legs. Stiles sighed gratefully, and between the Jeep and Delia he started to feel much less disoriented. 

Until the hood popped again as Derek climbed up beside him. Stiles cracked an eye open and turned his head, watching as Derek settled against the windshield. Stiles kept quiet, though. He’d already asked his questions of Derek; the man could choose to start up conversation, or not. The ball was in his court now, and one of the many things Stiles had learned over the summer was how to keep his mouth closed when necessary.

“I don’t like what you’re doing,” Derek finally said after a long, but not uncomfortable, moment. 

Stiles shrugged. “I’m just laying here.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.”

Derek glared at Stiles, and Stiles chuckled before turning his head away. “How do you know what I’ve been doing, anyway?” Stiles asked.

Derek gave Stiles’ marked body an obvious once over, raising his eyebrows when he was done. 

“Don’t look at me like that," Stiles groaned. "How do I know if you’ve ever seen a witch before?”

“My family dealt with them on occasion," Derek said with a shrug. "Of course I’ve seen witches before.”

“'Dealt' with them?” Stiles asked, an uncomfortable feeling rippling through him. 

“They are all about the deals, aren’t they?” Derek replied, eyes narrowing as he looked away.

Stiles sighed. “You’re.”

“What?” Derek asked, looking back at Stiles in surprise.

“You meant, _you’re_ all about the deals.”

Derek looked away and frowned. “I don’t like it.”

“Have I mentioned how I miss you talking in circles without actually _saying_ anything?” Stiles said with snort. “Just like old times, man.”

“You’re letting yourself be used.”

Stiles felt his heart skip a beat, and he sat up in alarm. Delia growled at him from her position on his legs and nipped his thigh in retaliation. But Stiles just shoved at her and frowned. “What, uh…” He cleared his throat. “What makes you say that?”

“You texted me,” Derek replied, giving him an odd look. 

Stiles’ heart dropped and he looked over at Derek in shock.

“Why would you text me if you didn’t want me to know?” Derek asked.

“You never answered.” Stiles twitched and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I assumed you disconnected your phone and my texts were fodder for some random normal dude’s bar jokes.”

But Derek didn’t laugh, and his expression remained disapproving and unhappy. “You haven’t told anyone else any of what happened, have you?”

“Well, to be fair, I haven’t really told you anything, either,” Stiles said with a shrug. His heart didn’t skip because it wasn’t exactly a lie; most of what he’d texted Derek had been generic enough that a random reader wouldn’t be compelled to call the crazy police on him. Most of it had been thoughts and responses to what he was learning, and how he was feeling.

Most of it wasn’t good.

“Deaton wouldn’t help me. He wouldn’t tell me a goddamn thing, Derek, and I had to do something,” he said, laying back down on the windshield, cushioning his head against the glass with his hand again.

“Why did you have to do anything, Stiles? What happened?”

Stiles stared at him in disbelief. “How much do you know about what happened while you were, uh, with Cora and Peter?”

“Lydia filled me in. Something about being tainted by darkness because of what you did with the Nemeton.”

“Tainted,” Stiles repeated sadly. “That’s a good word for it.”

Derek was silent for for awhile, and Stiles waited it out. He unhooked one hand from behind his head and reached down to stroke Delia’s head, staring up at the stars, feeling better — more centered — than he had in a long time. He wanted to reach out with his senses to try and feel the energies in and around Derek, but his present near-incapacitation stopped him. Derek was an unknown quantity, and not just because Stiles had yet to mess with werewolf magics. Derek’s anchor was _anger_ , for Christ’s sake; Stiles was all but certain Derek’s aura would be riddled with black, and Stiles already had more than enough of that infecting his own energy.

But the _strength_ that Stiles could feel now, even without trying… it was so, so tempting.

“What’s it like?” Derek asked, breaking Stiles out of his thoughts.

Stiles took a deep breath. “Scott says that for him, it’s exactly like Joseph Conrad described — looking into the heart of an immense darkness. Sort of like a tint to the world, you know. Instead of rose-colored glasses, we get black-colored ones. It makes decisions harder for him. He’s gotten a little colder, a little less optimistic, but his connection to the rest of us through the pack bond seems to make it less burdensome to him, as an alpha, than for someone else.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know how Allison is handling it. She wasn’t exactly firing on all thrusters to start with, ya know? She’s already stared into a darkness when she went through her homicidal fugue state, uh, _thing_. But she refuses to talk about it.”

Derek nodded, looking at Delia rather than Stiles. Delia, probably sensing Stiles’ unease at the coming conversation, decided to give him a rare bit of encouragement; she licked Stiles’ hand, then settled comfortably on his legs again.

“And you?” Derek prompted again.

“I didn’t handle it so well. At first, I felt just the same way as Scott. Like I was staring into an abyss. But it wasn’t more than an awareness for the first little while, you know? Like you can sense someone watching you, but it’s not necessarily with a sense of menace. But then the nightmares started.”

Delia whined and Stiles moved closer to Derek as some of the lingering images from those dreams pushed themselves to the forefront of his imagination. He didn’t _mean_ to, exactly, but Derek’s comfort — the low hum of powerful, confident, calm energy — was too much to resist.

“Nightmare is a charitable word for it, really,” Stiles said with a small laugh. “I was no stranger to nightmares before. I mean, with my mom, and my dad’s job, and my own natural tendency to be anxious… Well, let’s just say I didn’t think my imagination was _that_ messed up.”

“But it got worse,” Derek guessed as he stretched, and when he settled again his thigh was pressed against Stiles. Any other time, Stiles would have made fun of the classic move, but he honestly didn’t think it was intentional. Not only did Derek seem to have a genuine, healthy respect for Delia’s temper and sharp teeth, but Stiles knew from Scott that it was a werewolf’s instinct to touch when confronted with a sick or miserable packmate. Not that Derek and Stiles belonged to the same pack; Derek was an omega now as far as Stiles knew. But they’d spent enough time together, been through enough together, that there was still an undeniable connection between them. 

Intentional or not, the touch soothed Stiles. Delia seemed to sense that the contact between them was, on some level, truly necessary. Instead of growling or snapping at Derek like she would anyone else who dared touch Stiles, she turned her head and rested just the very edge of her jaw on Derek’s leg. If Derek was surprised, he didn’t show it. Fortunately, he didn’t try to pet her, either. 

“I stopped,” Stiles finally said, closing his eyes, using the heat of Derek at his side and Delia over his legs, and the cycle of familiar power flowing through the three of them, where they connected, as if they were a circuit. 

“Stopped what?”

“Almost everything. I stopped sleeping. I stopped eating. I stopped seeking out Scott or Isaac or Allison. I couldn’t see anything beyond the darkness for awhile, and it made trying to move through it seem pointless.”

“So you turned to the black arts? Seems counter-intuitive.”

Stiles opened his eyes again to glare at Derek. “Magic isn’t good or evil, white or black, Derek,” he said, annoyed. “Intention can be good or bad, but that’s it. It’s like calling the electricity used to keep a were from shifting good or bad. That’s crap.”

Derek looked angry for a moment, then Delia snorted quietly and it seemed to derail him. “Fine,” he said. “I’m sorry. My parents hated witches, but I’ve never really had the opportunity to form my own opinion.”

“Maybe the problem isn’t with witchcraft itself,” Stiles said darkly, stroking Delia. “Maybe it’s because those who end up turning to the craft are like me — desperate for a solution to a nearly impossible problem. You have to understand where I was coming from, dude. Deaton was totally useless. He wouldn’t give me jack about how to deal.” Stiles laughed. “He and his sister are the absolute _worst_ when it comes to giving advice. Seriously. When I was having trouble with hypervigilance after the thing with Matt and Jackson, she told me that if I was going through hell, that I just needed to keep going. What the hell kind of advice is that?”

“Deaton was my mother’s trusted advisor,” Derek said, looking at Stiles with uncomfortable acuity. Stiles squirmed a little under his gaze, biting back an instinctive retort about how well that turned out for them. 

“Your mother trusted Deaton and hated witches,” Stiles said with a shake of his head. “Where does that leave me?”

Derek opened his mouth to reply, but Stiles decided there was no way he wanted to end up in fight with Derek over his deceased matriarch. He knew better than that. “Look, I’m just saying if he had shared just the tiniest fraction of information, I probably wouldn’t be in my present… situation.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Derek lift a hand. Stiles froze, anticipating a touch, watching Delia to stop her in case she decided it was finally time to tell Derek, with her teeth, to fuck off. But as Derek’s fingers came to rest over the hieroglyphs on his neck, Delia didn’t move to interfere, and Stiles couldn’t have moved if he tried.

“These are the ones you didn’t want, aren’t they? The ones you were tricked into.” Derek rubbed a thumb over the scars, and Stiles had to blink back sudden tears. 

“How did you know?” he asked quietly in a voice that was more than a little wobbly.

“Believe it or not, I’m actually familiar with Egyptian curse magic. Maybe I’ll even tell you the story someday.”

Stiles found himself unconsciously leaning into Derek’s touch. The truth was that everyone seemed hesitant to touch him these days, and he missed the feeling of warm hands on his now abused skin. He still got the occasional hug from Scott and his dad, but they were decidedly less frequent, and decidedly more hesitant, than they ever had been before. 

“Quinten didn’t tell me what he was teaching me. I thought it was _defensive_ magic, not _offensive_. I would never have agreed to the price he claimed if I knew.” He hesitated, blinking back tears. “Did you know that the intention of the caster has enormous impact on how the energy is extracted from a person? Offensive magic is brutal, and so is the repayment. These marks are a warning that I can give, and take, at some seriously vile levels.”

Derek pulled his hand back, and Stiles wiped the traitor tears away with his wrist. “I didn’t know that,” Derek admitted.

“That makes two of us.” Stiles sniffed and shook his head. “That’s why I’m so fucking angry with Deaton. I mean, he didn’t have to take me under his wing and share his secrets of life, the universe, and everything, you know? But if he had told me how teaching and learning magic among witches works, I might have...” Stiles meant to say _been more careful_ , but snapped his mouth shut when, instead, he almost said _stayed far, far away_.

“You don’t have to keep doing this, Stiles. You don’t have to let people take anything from you that you don’t really want to give, or teach you things you never want to use.” Derek took Stiles’ chin in his hand and turned his head so they were staring at each other. The intensity in Derek’s expression startled Stiles, and he blinked but didn’t pull away. “You can stop.”

“No, I can’t,” Stiles said ruefully. “The fact is that I’m actually really good at magic and really accepting of the basic theory in ways most people can’t be because they don’t have the imagination. Apparently long-term exposure to the supernatural really shoves a potential witch ahead in the game by suspending disbelief entirely. Like, I have no filter that says ‘No, I can’t do that because it’s impossible!’ At this point, with all we’ve seen, I know better to think that _anything_ is impossible. Because of that I’m actually kind of a minor prodigy. My retention rate is fantastic, and the energy exchanges are always pure.”

“If anyone hurts you again…”

“What, Derek?” Stiles asked with a resigned sigh. “You kind of have to understand how hard it is for me to hear you disapproving of my mentors’ brand of instruction, right? It’s a little hypocritical, given what Isaac has told me about how you used to train your betas.”

Derek stiffened angrily and sat up on the Jeep. Stiles felt an immediate rush of contrition, but there was nothing he could do to take the words back. Hell, he didn’t _want_ to. He just didn’t want Derek to leave.

“I should go,” Derek said stiffly.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever, man,” Stiles said tiredly. Delia gave a half-hearted growl and turned her face away from Derek again, who seemed to take that as invitation to slide off the hood of the Jeep. “I’ll see you later.”

“No you won’t,” Derek corrected. Stiles turned to look at him and watched through narrowed eyes as Derek took a few steps back. “I only came back to file some paperwork with the county to get my land back. I’m leaving again in the morning.”

“Why?”

Derek looked torn for a moment, as if not sure which statement Stiles was asking for clarification on. “Cora and I left, but we don’t want to give up our pack’s claim to Beacon Hills. Getting the property back in our name will help.”

Stiles snorted. “Pretty sure the Hale pack hasn’t been in charge of our happy little hellmouth of a town in over seven years now, Derek. A property deed isn’t going to do much to give you any authority over our pack.”

“It’s not about Cora or me wanting any power here,” Derek said. “It’s about keeping other packs out so Scott doesn’t have to deal with any interlopers looking for a territory claim.”

Now it was Stiles’ turn to sit up, staring at Derek in surprise. “Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s actually, uh, really nice of you and Cora.”

“No it’s not.” Derek’s words were soft and sad.

“Why not?”

But Derek didn’t answer. He spent one more brief minute looking Stiles’ half-naked body over before nodding to himself as if he’d just made a decision.

“Keep texting me, Stiles.”

Stiles felt his mouth open in shock. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Are you going to start answering me?”

Derek shrugged. “And be careful, okay?”

“Define careful.”

“Stiles…”

Stiles swallowed and nodded. “All right. I promise to be careful.”

Derek stared at him, eyes sharp as he seemed to be evaluating the truth of that statement. But Stiles knew Derek wouldn’t pick up on any sign that he was lying, because he wasn’t. The whole point of this was to be safe. To keep his friends and family safe. To make life bearable again. This wasn’t about Stiles wanting to be Batman. This was about Stiles just wanting to live.

Apparently satisfied, Derek nodded once before shifting and taking off, heavy hands and feet thumping loudly against the forest floor until the sound disappeared entirely.

Stiles found himself staying on the hood of his Jeep for the rest of the night, thinking, until finally the sky turned pink with a new day. He didn’t go home in the morning — not technically, anyway. He drove the Jeep home to park it in the garage again, waiting until his dad was gone before he even did that. There was no point in stopping in to say hi. Not only would John be excited to see that Stiles was back sooner than he said he’d be (and Stiles didn’t want to see the disappointment on his face when he found out otherwise), but then Stiles would be forced to explain _why_ he was back in the first place. Nothing about the past twelve hours, from his new transporting skills to fighting the slenderman bigfoot thing to basically cuddling with Derek Hale on the hood of his Jeep for almost an hour, was likely to get him anything but grief. It was annoying that he had to hide his first true magical triumph from his dad, but Stiles consoled himself with the knowledge that it was only temporary. He’d tell his dad all about it, but only when he was done training with Sokura. Her binding on his skin itched like tiny ants running under his skin and he wanted it gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**July 23, 2013**

Derek sat on the top of the scaffolding, thermos of coffee sending small tendrils of steam upwards towards his chilly nose. Even though it was going to be nearly 90 degrees later in the day, right now, this high up, it was damp and chilly enough to make him appreciate the warmth of the coffee.

The sunrise was stunning, a wash of reds and oranges and golds rising like a smoldering fire from behind the New York skyline, but Derek found he couldn’t enjoy it very much. His body was here in New York, but his mind was on the other side of the country.

His last interaction with Stiles hadn’t gone well at all, and it fucking hurt.

Derek didn’t know what the hell had come over him. Perhaps his bad attitude was something like muscle memory, where he stepped into that cursed town and fell back into old habits without a second thought. He’d been angry about being dragged into yet another fight to the death within just a few hours of landing on California soil, and that anger had ratcheted up exponentially when he realized what the plan was.

Scott, the dumbass, has used Stiles as _bait_.

Even now, the thought made his teeth elongate and his claws start to grow. Scott and Isaac hadn’t even been there when Stiles had stood, fighting for his life, in the middle of that circle. What the hell was Scott thinking?

As for Stiles... he was not at all what Derek had expected. Derek knew that the events Stiles had texted him about would have an effect, but he hadn’t expected it to be so profound already. 

And then, like an idiot, he had baited Stiles. He’d seen Stiles’ scars, his unwanted tattoos, the same white haze over his eyes that Jennifer had had when she was working magic, and proceeded to accuse Stiles of working with black magic. Told Stiles that Derek’s parents would have hated him. Told him to quit.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

It hadn’t been until they’d stopped talking for a minute that Derek realized how close Stiles had gotten to him, physically. Every part of Stiles’ body had been straining for contact and Derek had unconsciously moved to accommodate him. When he realized what was happening, it lead to him _really_ trying to see Stiles. Beyond the hieroglyphs on his neck, the silvery scars on his hands and arms (probably from ritual bloodletting), the curve of inky vines and leaves and knots on his feet, ankles, and wrists… beyond all that, Derek realized, was a very damaged young man. There was exhaustion in every tick of his muscles, in the bags under his eyes, in the way he was still; before all of this, he would have been always moving in some small way. Stiles was drained and tired and _off_ in a way Derek couldn’t quite pin down.

So he’d given in to the urge to let Stiles press himself along Derek’s side. But then Derek had to ruin the moment by continuing his accusations and getting angry with Stiles for his accusations over how Derek treated his betas. And the worst of it? Stiles had been right.

Derek sighed and took a deep drink of his coffee. What the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t have any right to get that angry at Stiles.

At least it had ended well enough, without blood or threats. Stiles promised to be careful, and though Derek saw it for the evasion it was, it was good enough for now. Even better, Stiles promised to keep texting. _That_ Derek counted as a win.

 

**August 8, 2013**

“How was it?” Scott asked when Stiles was finally back in Beacon Hills. “Three weeks, dude. Please tell me it was awesome.” 

Stiles shot a quick look at Scott from his exhausted curl on the couch. He and Delia had flown in last night at nearly two in the morning — his energy was too low to bother with a transport, and Sokura was paying anyway — and his dad had picked him up and driven him straight home. It was all a blur to Stiles, and he barely remembered hugging his father before he crashed spectacularly in his bed, Delia collapsing quickly beside him. Sixteen hours of sleep later, he was still too tired to do much more than mutter, “Yeah, man. It was awesome.” 

But Scott’s tone, as puppy-eager as it sounded, was also laced with dread. It was as if Scott wasn’t so much looking for a play-by-play of the incredible things Stiles had learned while he was gone, but was seeking reassurance instead. 

Stiles unfurled himself from the couch with a wince, accidentally kicking Delia as he went, who growled in annoyance but otherwise didn’t move, and sat up straight to meet Scott’s eyes. 

“You don’t look awesome,” Scott replied uneasily. “You look hungover. And beaten up. And…”

Stiles laughed and shook his head, holding his hand up. “You make it sound like it was bars and brawls, dude, oh my god.” He shuffled up to his feet and headed to the kitchen, Delia and Scott both trailing behind him. Mercifully, the electric kettle he’d ordered on Amazon had arrived before he’d gotten home, and Stiles’ dad had once again proved himself the best of all dads, ever, by washing it out and hooking it up for him. “You know I can’t do alcohol or anything even remotely artificial anymore. And I may have magic on my side, but I’m still not exactly looking to flex metaphysical muscle against the real thing.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about and you know it.”

Stiles carried the kettle to the sink, filled it, and placed it back on the base. He flipped the switch on, then turned to smile at Scott. “Sokura is brilliant and mostly amazing. Other than her penchant for smacking me upside the head like a school marm, she’s a fantastic teacher. Everyone is going to be grateful for what she taught me, actually, I think. Japanese magic is all about words — using them wisely.”

“If you’re trying to tell me that she figured out how to get you to talk less, you’re not really convincing me here.”

Stiles cuckled and shuffled to the cupboard to grab mugs. “Tea?”

Scott snorted and gave him a _what do you think_ sort of look.

“Right.” Stiles pulled the last bit of his sweet mango tea from the bottom of the tin and scooped it into his mug. “Damn. Remind me to get more of this.”

“So that’s what you did for three weeks? Learned Japanese and got smacked around by the tiny granny lady?”

Stiles twitched, trying to shake off the haze of too much gratuitous magic. “No, actually. I was only with Sokura for eight or nine days.”

“You’ve been gone for —”

“Twenty-one days. I know.”

Stiles smirked at Scott, the corners of his mouth curling up wickedly. “I impressed her. I impressed _Sokura_ , Scott. Do you know what that means?”

“No more violence against your skull?”

“Hardly. I think it’s actually a sign of her affection.”

“You have a twisted view of relationships, Stiles. I just think you should know.”

Stiles snorted. “If Sokura likes you, all the heavily-bolted, overly-ornate doors of the witch elite creaky merrily open.” Stiles spread his arms open for dramatic effect, but all he got from Scott for his efforts was a grimace.

“Okay, then. And just how many of these creaky doors did you stumble your way through?”

“So many.” The kettle clicked off and Stiles busied himself pouring the water over the tea leaves. “You know, I’d all but given up on the idea of the stereotypical bad-ass Wicca that pop culture told me was a thing. As much as I wanted to meet a real-life Willow, it’s been all normal people, with normal lives and normal jobs who just happen to do magic on the side.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” Scott asked, raising his eyebrow. 

Stiles hesitated to respond, thinking about how long and how hard his friend had struggled to maintain a sense of normalcy — an identity apart from lycanthropy. Unlike Scott, Stiles wasn’t hesitant in accepting his new gifts. He didn’t _want_ to be normal. He wanted to embrace his magic and oddness and let the world know just how fucking different, how _powerful_ , he was now. But Scott wouldn’t understand that. He’d see it as asking for trouble — the kind that got you shot with arrows laced with your own special brand of kryptonite — and it would make him frown even harder than he already was.

“That’s not the point,” he finally said. “The point is that I’d given up on finding anyone like that. Then I passed through Sokura’s slap-happy little hoop, and all of a sudden, Chicago becomes my own magical playground.” Stiles shot Scott another grin, then headed back to the couch with his tea. “A few days with Jeff, learning about crystals. A few more days with Amelia, learning about herbs. Then Carrie and crystals. Then David, dear, sweet David, about herbs and crystals together.” Stiles collapsed on the couch happily, hissing when the hot tea slopped over the edges of his mug to burn his hand. Delia growled when a splash hit her nose, and she snapped at Stiles before jumping up to sit beside him on the couch. Stiles grabbed her muzzle and gave it an affectionate shake before letting her go.

“Um, Stiles?” Scott prompted, eyebrows doing that waggle and twitch of his lips that meant that he was amused. He sat in the chair across from Stiles and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“Okay, that?” Stiles said enthusiastically, waving in the general vicinity of Scott’s face. “Yes. Yes! Exactly what you’re thinking.”

The amusement melted into surprise. “The herbs and crystals, or the way you said _David_?”

Stiles smirked. “Yep.”

Scott straightened in his chair. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Stiles asked incredulously. “I’m finally no longer prime material for Darach insta-seduction sacrifices, and all I get is an ‘oh’?”

“I just…” Scott sat back, hesitance in every inch of his frame. Stiles carefully set his mug on the coffee table and braced himself for whatever Scott was going to say. Since becoming an Alpha — technically, Stiles’ alpha — every hint of disapproval and every negative comment seemed to hit Stiles ten times harder than it used to. Stiles had no idea if this was because of some magical pack connection thing, or simply because he felt like he was letting his already stressed-out friend down by burdening him. 

“It’s not the guy thing, is it? I mean, I know I’ve been almost single-mindedly focused on Lydia for years now, but you remember my crush on Steven before that.” Not that Scott and Stiles had ever sat down and actually had a discussion about sexuality, of course, but Stiles had made it pretty clear that he wasn’t really picky about what someone he was attracted to had in their pants.

“No, of course not!” Scott rushed to argue, waving his hands defensively. “You should know better!”

That surely made what was coming worse, Stiles thought miserably. At least a shock about gender would be quickly and easily dealt with, with the promise of no further conflict. Scott wasn’t a bigot, after all. That made any objections left a matter of actual concern.

“What, then?”

Scott sighed. “Two things, actually. If you lost it to some dude because you were high on magic and herbs or whatever…”

Stiles held up his hands defensively. “Whoa, stop right there. I wasn’t high.”

“The hell you weren’t!” Scott huffed. “I know what you’re like when you’re channeling a lot of power in ways you haven’t tried before.” Stiles raised an eyebrow, and Scott shrugged. “Well, what you look like when you go home, anyway. It’s like you’re… tripping the light fantastic or something.”

Stiles wanted to snort at the reference, he _really_ did, but that didn’t mean Scott wasn’t at least a little right. “It was totally consensual. I thought he was hot _before_ the magic and the strategic application of home-grown — and totally legal, mind you — plant matter.”

“That’s not the point!” Scott leaned forward again, looking into Stiles’ eyes with a depth of sincerity and concern that made Stiles want to look away. “But there is one other thing, too.”

“What?” Stiles asked warily.

“You keep talking about the, uh, transactional nature of magical instruction...”

Good mood officially killed, Stiles stood up from the couch, narrowly avoiding kicking Delia again and threw his arms in the air. “Oh my god! Seriously?”

“Stiles!” Scott reached out for Stiles in an effort to steady him, but Delia immediately got in his way, growling menacingly. 

Scott growled right back, and the Stiles used the little pissing contest as a moment to gather his thoughts and find a way out of this conversation without Scott doing something drastic. As much as he wanted to be angry with Scott at the accusation that Stiles would whore himself out for magic, that truth was that he’d already done it. Virginity was a damn useful tool for certain kinds of magic, and Stiles had taken full advantage of that fact in negotiating with Layla. In return for his first sexual acts — performed during ritual, but still pretty damn fantastic — Stiles had gotten her skill of touch telepathy on-demand. 

Stiles didn’t regret it; in fact, he still occasionally thought back fondly on that weekend. Hell, if someone asked him to take his turn on the altar again for sex magic, Stiles was fairly certain he would, if the trade was good enough. But Scott couldn’t know that. Scott had lost his virginity to someone he had truly loved, and who was still the number once force of good in his life. He simply couldn’t understand that it was just energy. Just bodies. That it didn’t have to be anything more than that.

“Look, Scott, you don’t need to worry. It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t so far gone that I was incapable of making rational decisions, and it had nothing to do with a trade. We were attracted to each other, we had a good time, and we both came away from the experience better for it. Okay?”

The lack of a lie in any of that seemed to sooth Scott’s ire. “Okay. I’m sorry. I just worry about you when I’m not there to help.”

“I know, man. Thanks.” Stiles clapped a hand on Scott’s shoulder and squeezed. “But listen. I really did wear myself out these past few weeks. Took a beating learning some new defensive moves. Magically-enhanced jujitsu and kenjutsu? Turns out that it’s hard for the gravitationally-challenged like me.” He left the _I’m gonna go take a nap_ implied rather than said, because that would have been the lie that gave him away. He just didn’t want to keep having this conversation anymore. He was feeling an odd urge to curl up with Derek, the way he had in the woods after the monkey slenderman incident. As strange as the feeling was, it was also impossible. Derek was on the other side of the country, and Stiles didn’t have enough energy to just pop in. And even if he did, he didn’t think he’d be welcome.

Scott hesitated, then nodded. Delia immediately stopped growling, though she kept her defensive posture. “Pack meeting tomorrow. Are you coming?”

“Yep,” Stiles said with a grin, popping the p. “I’ll see you there.” Stiles gave Scott one last reassuring smile, then turned to go upstairs.

 

~~~

 

Delia watched Stiles curiously as Stiles drew his circle in the dirt around both of them. This ritual was going to take awhile, and involve some pretty spectacular magic, so he’d driven them both out to the Preserve. Or, close to the Preserve. He wasn’t really sure where its land ended and Hale land began, but he didn’t really care. The entire forest was imbued with a special, borderless magic that thrummed through Stiles’ veins. It wasn’t like a drug, here in this familiar environment. It was a sense of home that Stiles felt, like comfort food or a long, hot bath at the end of a bad day. Some day he was going to find himself an earth witch to trade energies with so he could learn to untangle the centuries-old threads of magic than ran through the trees and rocks and water, but that would have to wait. For now, the magic knew him and welcomed him, and Stiles settled on his knees in the middle of the circle without fear. 

The drawing of power up through the ground was easy, as were the words meant to hide himself from any passing interlopers. As soon as Stiles felt the circle snap into place, he drew pulled his Hobby Lobby Supply bag from his backpack, the disc of mountain ash from his back pocket, and the wood carving knife out of his pocket. 

This part never got easier or less painful but at least he was getting better it, Stiles thought ruefully as he drew a gash on his forearm. It wasn’t wide, but it was deep. He had a lot to do, and he thought it was better to have a deep cut that lasted the length of the ritual rather than half a dozen shallow ones.

It took Stiles twenty minutes to complete the charm. When he was done with his carving, a charm carved in his own blood on the mountain ash pendant, sealed with salt from his skin mixed with perfectly ordinary varnish, he could feel it humming with _connection_. His hands trembled as he threaded a leather band through the hole at the top, and Delia — for once holding perfectly still for Stiles — held out her paw for Stiles to wrap it around her paw.

“I don’t like it,” she said immediately, voice higher and lighter and more pleasant than Stiles would have guessed. He almost fell over — not just because of the blood and energy loss, he told himself. He felt a curious tug, the evidence of magic working in his brain where the charm was linking with his language centers to allow Delia to draw on them. Her mouth had opened and words had come out, and Stiles laughed a little hysterically as she shook her paw in annoyance.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said, grinning ear to ear.

“I don’t want to get used to it. Take it off.” Delia bent over to start chewing on the leather, and Stiles smacked her nose.

“Don’t do that.”

Delia bared her teeth and growled. “Such affection for your faithful companion?”

“Maybe you’d get cuddles instead of smacks if you showed any affection, _at all_ , yourself,” Stiles argued. It didn’t feel as strange as he thought it might, talking to a dog. He wondered if it was because he was conditioned to think of big, growly canines as merely people in disguise, or if was because of too many Disney cartoons as a child. 

“I offer when physical contact is necessary,” Delia scoffed, settling onto her belly and looking at her leather-wrapped leg with deep suspicion. “Besides, you don’t care much for affection, either.” 

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but he realized before he got the first word out that she was, in fact, right. It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ affection on some primal level, but it made him twitchy.

“You’re right,” he finally said with a shrug.

“I don’t like this,” Delia repeated. “You’re not meant to concede to me. You order me around and you draw on my strength, and I draw on your power, but we don’t ‘talk things out’. I fight and hurt and kill on your behalf, and you give me the power to win.”

“I’m not taking it off,” Stiles huffed, hiding his discomfort at the idea. _Friend_ , he mind screamed pathetically. After everything he’d gone through, after how fundamentally he’d connected them, he wasn’t giving this up.

“I knew you wouldn’t,” Delia said with a sigh. Then she rested her head on her paws and closed her eyes.

Neither of them spoke to the other for the rest of the night as Stiles sank deeper and deeper into the now-familiar, near-comatose state of healing and recharging that he fell into now after extreme power draws. Delia, for her part, seemed content in the silence.

 

**August 9, 2013**

Stiles woke to find his hands wrapped around someone’s throat and sharp teeth wrapped around his own wrist. Twin frantic voices were ricocheting in his mind, and when his vision cleared from its frightening black to fuzzy focus, Stiles realized the voices belonged to Delia and Derek. Delia, whose teeth were the source of his pain, and Derek, whose neck Stiles was currently crushing. They were both screaming at him to _stop, stop, stop, wake up goddamnit!_

Stiles threw himself backwards, Delia’s teeth shredding the skin around his wrist when she didn’t let go quickly enough. 

Whatever focus he’d regained was once again lost as the images crowded in. Fire. Hunters. Guns. Pain. Fear. Desperation. Dozens of faces. Some he knew — Derek’s pack, Derek’s family. Others he didn’t, though he could sense that some were very old, and some were filtered through Delia’s limited canine understanding. 

It was too much, and Stiles clapped his hands over his ears and roared in pain. This wasn’t the first time he’d lost control of his telepathy and ended up absorbing images he didn’t want to see, but it _was_ the first time it had happened while he was sleeping. 

A hand landed on his chest, and Stiles’ senses were once again flooded. _Painlonlinessworry_ echoed through him, the emotions so overwhelming that they blocked out any actual rational thought or memory. It still fucking hurt, and Stiles yanked himself away, screaming.

As soon as the contact was gone, Stiles collapsed on his knees and pressed his forehead to the soothing earth of the Preserve, grounding himself in the familiar energy and magic. Distantly, he heard Delia growling and the light crunch of leaves under her paws, and Stiles wondered if she was keeping Derek back. He was grateful — if he spoke now, he’d probably throw up.

It took awhile, but Stiles slowly felt like he was coming back to himself. The images and blackness cleared, and when he eventually lifted his head to look at where Derek was crouched, he was fully in focus.

“Fuck,” he whispered as he took in Derek’s state. There were hand-sized bruises like mutated butterflies wrapped around his neck, and he was still coughing, eyes red with burst capillaries. “Fuck Derek, I am so, so sorry. I was dreaming. Oh my god, what are you doing here?”

Derek sucked in a deep breath and shook his head as another coughing spasm took him. Stiles turned his head under the guise of looking for Delia, unable to look at what he’d done. He briefly thought about offering to heal Derek, but putting his hands anywhere near the injured werewolf seemed like a monumentally stupid idea at the moment. Besides, Derek should be healing soon, Stiles told himself. Even if it took a little longer than normal because of Stiles’ magic.

Delia whined and laid with her belly on the ground, staring up at Stiles. Her eyes flicked to his wrist and back up Stiles, and then she crawled forward, contrition clear in every movement of her body. She opened her muzzle and for one, brief, hopeful second, Stiles thought she was going to say something. But she merely licked at the blood — Stiles’ blood — on her nose and lay her head back down again.

Reminded of the injury, Stiles glanced down to see that the wound wasn’t really that bad. The torn skin was ugly and bleeding sluggishly, but Delia obviously had been as careful as she was capable of being. He sighed and stretched two arms out to her, and she immediately dove onto his lap.

“Stiles…” Derek said a moment later, finally unhindered by coughs. 

Stiles didn’t look up. Didn’t _dare_ look up, afraid of the anger or hurt or pity that might be there.

“I’m sorry. I just… you shouldn’t…” Stiles gripped Delia closer and shook his head in frustration. “You shouldn’t try to wake me up when I’m having a nightmare.”

“So I’ve discovered,” Derek rasped. 

“I’m sorry.”

“If I were a human, I’d probably be dead.”

Stiles flinched back from the words despite the quiet way they were delivered. “Most humans wouldn’t have happened across me, having a dream, in the middle of the woods,” he defended. 

“And if they had?”

“They wouldn’t try to wake a complete stranger.”

“And if they had?”

Stiles’ temper snapped and he looked up at Derek with a glare. “Most of them would be smart enough to back off when Delia got in their way.”

“And what part of leaving you trapped in a nightmare that leaves you wrecked and screaming like you’re being _tortured in_ _hell_ is smart, Stiles?” Derek snapped right back. “And, by the way, don’t think for one minute that I buy that that was just a nightmare.”

Stiles felt his body tense, and he looked up at Derek with narrowed eyes. “Of course it was a nightmare,” he said calmly, though he was under no illusions that Derek hadn’t picked up the increasing speed of his heartbeat. He didn’t think Derek could know about the telepathy; Stiles had told _no one_ , not even Scott, about that. Not just because the trade itself wasn’t something he wanted to share, but because he didn’t want anyone afraid to touch him. 

It surprised him to realize just how much it would hurt if Derek stopped touching him.

Then Derek slowly stood and took several slow steps towards where Stiles and Delia were huddled together on the hot, damp forest floor. Stiles and Delia stayed tense but still, warily watching him as he approached. They didn’t move to discourage him, however, and soon Derek was carefully settling himself on the ground next to Stiles. He hesitated only a moment before pressing himself lightly along Stiles’ side, from arm to hip, and Stiles exhaled in relief. 

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbled, letting his head fall on Derek’s shoulder.

“I thought you said your magic was allowing you to control the nightmares.”

“It does,” Stiles said with a shrug that caused the top of his head to rub against Derek’s neck. Derek’s reaction — to bend his own head down enough to rub his cheek against Stiles in return — was so quick that Stiles wondered if it was unconscious instinct. If that were the case, he hoped Derek didn’t notice what he was doing and pull away. But as Derek merely held still, the silence made Stiles realize there was a price to keep him there; Derek obviously expected him to explain.

Unfortunately, Stiles didn’t know what to say. At first, the things he’d learned had given him enough insight into the nature of magic that he was more easily able to feel and understand the blackness wrapping itself around his heart. It wasn’t just some force of unnamable evil that Stiles had let in by opening his mind to the Nemeton — it was more like a portal. Not only did it reveal the darker side magic  — that someone new to it shouldn’t be able to see or touch because they simply didn’t have the capacity to handle that kind of power — it let those who played in that arena see Stiles in return. His dreams had become infected with the faceless magicians’ unpleasant intentions, the echoes of which tightened around Stiles’ unconsciousness like a vice. 

The fucking _irony_.

Learning to see what was happening, learning to manipulate the magic, had given Stiles a sort of internal measure of control. He’d been able to meditate and focus on the window, not just to close it, but to open it back up again when he wanted to call on it. It also let him see the others, witch and not, human and… _not_.

But once he’d mastered that — or so he thought — he’d moved on to magic for magic’s sake and stopped focusing on the control. Apparently, that was going to cost him.

Derek shifted, but before Stiles could protest, Derek merely slipped his hand free to slide under Stiles’ shirt. The heat of skin-to-skin contact where Derek’s palm rested over his spine shocked Stiles out of what he realized was the descent into a panic attack.

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbled, turning so his forehead was resting on Derek’s shoulder, eyes closed. “Thanks.”

“What is it, Stiles?” Derek asked quietly, breath tickling Stiles’ hair. His voice was perfectly calm, if perhaps a little impatient. Tangled together like this Stiles saw the deception for what it was. Derek’s energy hummed with exasperation and concern, and Stiles let himself fall into in.

“I wasn’t lying when I said magic isn’t inherently good or evil,” Stiles started tiredly. “But because humans put flavor in it, it can _become_ good or evil.”

“And you’re just starting to realize this?”

Stiles only managed not to cuff Derek in exasperation because he was afraid it would make Derek move away. “No, dumbass,” he scoffed instead. “It’s just… destructive magic is like fire, you know? Wild and inexorable and impossible to control when there is too much of it.”

“Are you doing dark magic?” Derek asked, and to his credit, there was no accusation in his voice.

“No!” Stiles protested, opening his eyes in surprise that Derek would ask him that. Even in his bargains, he was extremely careful to make sure no one used his energy for anything truly dark — though there were shades of gray he might never confess to anyone. “But it’s hard to hold a flame in your heart and not get consumed by it.”

“Maybe you need to pick better teachers.”

Stiles couldn’t help it — he laughed. _Teachers_. In the beginning he’d called them mentors, because Aria truly was. Now he knew better. Aria was the exception, not the rule, and for some reason hearing _Derek_ use the phrase teacher without irony or malice was just fucking hilarious.

“Well,” he said when the laughter had finally calmed into something more rational. “If you have any recommendations, let me know, would you?”

The prickly edge of concern in Derek’s aura suddenly became overwhelming as it blotted out Derek’s usual muddy red and streaked gray with a glowing, translucent amber. But Derek didn’t say anything, didn’t move, didn’t even change his breathing patterns. It made Stiles wonder just how many of their interactions would have turned out very differently if Stiles had been able to just _see_.

“Can werewolves smell emotions?” he asked, suddenly curious. Maybe Stiles, puny teenage human that he’d been, couldn’t sense Derek’s feelings on any given situation, but that didn’t mean the wolves couldn’t. It would certainly explain why Scott seemed to have such faith in the man, though not why Isaac, Erica, and Boyd would leave him.

“Only if those emotions have some sort of strong biological component,” Derek replied easily.

“Lust, attraction, fear, depression…” Stiles said, thinking about what he’d learned in a biochem book he’d read not long after the Scott and Lydia Office Incident, as he like to think of it. Or _not_ think of it, as the case may be. “Testosterone or oestrogen, dopamine, serotonin, adrenaline, cortisol… Wait, you can recognize all those?”

“No,” Derek said. “Not individually, not exactly. You just learn. Like you can’t describe the chemicals that give the rose its scent, but you still know a rose from a dandelion.”

“Thank makes sense.” Stiles relaxed a little bit more against Derek, finally feeling like the last of his own brain chemicals — adrenalin and cortisol and whatever flooded the brain when a person had nightmares — were finally going back to normal levels. “What about concern?”

Derek didn’t say anything right away, but Stiles thought it was because he was thinking about the answer rather than avoiding the question. “Not really,” he finally said. “You can _see_ concern — it’s usually pretty obvious in body language and facial expressions — but concern doesn’t really have a smell. Worry does, though. The kind that keeps you up at night or leaves you afraid, I mean.”

Stiles hummed and closed his eyes again. 

“Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Can you sense emotions now?”

“Sense? Not really. See, maybe.”

“See? How?”

“Auras.”

“You can see auras?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty annoying. It looks like someone took cheap-ass crayons to everyone and tried their best to outline them.” Stiles thought about how most people’s auras weren’t clear or one solid color, but usually a muddy color streaked with other colors. “No, not crayons,” he amended. “Markers. Ones that have been used to color through other marker colors, so it’s all streaky and unattractive.”

“You can’t turn it off?” Derek asked, surprised. “I thought whether you used magic or not was completely within your control.”

“I wish,” Stiles said with a snort. “It doesn’t work like that. Once you open the window, you never really can close it again.”

“But doesn’t using magic take energy?”

Stiles didn’t answer, because he knew damn well where Derek was going with this and any denial would be an obvious lie.

“So you have a constant, low-grade energy drain all the time now.” Derek pulled his head away, but before the wave of disappointment could take Stiles entirely, Derek leaned in even further and brushed his nose against the hieroglyphs on Stiles’ neck. “And not just from being able to see auras.”

Stiles’ pulse picked up at the contact, but he willed his body into silence. Whatever Derek said next wasn’t going to be sexy.

“Even if you wanted to,” Derek started, breath hot on Stiles’ neck as he spoke slowly and softly, “would you be able to stop?”

Stiles sighed and turned his head, not enough to dislodged Derek, but enough to brush his mouth over Derek’s ear. “Yes. But it would be like you cutting the wolf out of your soul.”

Delia made a mournful noise, but Derek didn’t say anything. 

“What are you doing here, by the way? I thought you weren’t coming back.”

“The county needed me for some final paperwork.”

“So I’m not going to see you back in Beacon Hills again?”

“Not likely.”

That was disappointing, but it was hard to get sad about it when they were wrapped up in each other. Somehow they ended up tangled even closer, hands on warm skin, mouths pressed to pulse points. Stiles didn’t know what this was, but he was perfectly fine not to classify it, choosing to just enjoy it while he could. Distance was becoming much less of a problem for Stiles, and Derek knew it, so Stiles refused to think of this as a goodbye.


	6. Chapter 6

**August 10, 2013**

Stiles was getting damn good at transporting himself wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He didn’t even need to study Google Street View anymore in an effort to make sure he wasn’t going to magic himself into a tree; he merely took a split second before ‘landing’ to feel out the energies of surrounding objects to make sure he didn’t have an accident. The sensing trick was also very useful to ensure there weren’t any people around to freak out at the sudden appearance of a tall, pale, male witch with a crooked smile and hair made spiky in the transport. Not having to pay nearly a thousand dollars for a six hour plane ride was a perk, but the most pressing reason for Stiles’ use of magical transport was the heavy weight of time. There were only ten days until school started, and Stiles had _a lot_ he wanted to learn before his time became restricted once again. 

And, of course, staying home only long enough to sleep, take a shower, prove to his father and Scott that he was alive and unharmed was more than a little intentional. He didn’t want to stick around long enough for their pleased expressions to morph into concern.

Stiles and Delia materialized in an absolutely stunning forest that was still damp from the chill morning air. His ears popped unpleasantly, but that was the only side effect of the longest journey he’d taken yet: Beacon Hills to southwestern North Carolina. Not for the first time, he felt like a character in a fantasy novel, a hastily-packed bag on his shoulders and an adventure in front of him. 

This was Stiles’ first trip to the South, and for a long moment he just stood, taking in his surroundings. He knew he was in the Blue Ridge Mountains, but he didn’t feel the height the way he sometimes did during hikes with his dad in California. The hills seem to roll around him in more gentle waves, bright green and painted with ribbons and splotches of blue, white, orange, and red flowers. The mist hovered around him like clouds clinging too close to the trees, and Stiles took a deep breath, enjoying the way the warm air flooded his system before he’d start his trek to find the woman — Christine — who lived here. Delia woofed happily and stuck her nose in the dirt, chasing who knew what scent, and Stiles grinned at the unusually dog-like behavior.

“Enjoying yourself?” a bright but sarcastic voice asked behind him, and Stiles spun clumsily in place, flailing to keep himself upright. Delia instantly became alert and left behind whatever had caught her attention to stand between Stiles and the newcomer.

“Holy god,” he breathed out, annoyed. “Do you like to scare the crap out of all your apprentices, or is it just me?”

“‘All’ implies that I’ve taken on more than one,” the woman said, cocking her head to the side slightly. 

Stiles swallowed, suddenly feeling like a mouse in cat’s claws. Christine wasn’t physically imposing at all — she was at most five feet tall, and one of the thinnest women Stiles had ever seen. She had no muscle definition whatsoever, but was petite and willow-like, as if she could disappear just by stepping behind a sapling. She wore a denim dress that hugged her upper body and showed off what little cleavage she had, and flared to end just above her knees. Her hair fell in candy-apple red waves to just above her shoulders, and her green eyes flashed a dangerous white under long eyelashes. She was barefoot and wore no jewelry, and the phrase _wood nymph_ sprang to mind. But despite her beauty and unassuming appearance, Stiles couldn’t help but take a step back. There was something in the line of her shoulders, the way she held herself in perfect stillness, that was completely unnerving.

“So I’m special?” Stiles ventured, shoulders twitching in an aborted roll. It was ridiculous, he thought. He was almost a foot taller than her, had at least fifty pounds of muscle on her, and had been magically trained in a variety of self-defense maneuvers that would make him a threat to even an alpha werewolf. And yet...

Delia growled and crowded herself even closer to him.

“Special,” Christine replied, mouth widening in a grin that spoke of a secret joke, not actual amusement.

Stiles took a breath and focused a little more sharply on the shifting waves emanating from around her form. Normally, Stiles didn’t need to concentrate at all to see auras — they were simply there. But in this case, he had to reach for it, catching a glimpse of murky pink stained with black and maroon before something snapped his head back, giving him the sensation of whiplash. 

Delia barked as Stiles stared incredulously, an unaccountable feeling of hurt lodging itself in his stomach. He felt like a puppy who’d just been struck on the nose with a newspaper.

“Nut uh uh,” Christine chastised, wagging her finger at him and stepping forward. “Rule number one. No peeking under the skirts without permission.”

Stiles’ eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding, right?” he huffed, frowning at her. “It’s impossible _not_ to get a feel for another person’s energy. Whether I want to or not, I’m eventually going to see your colors.”

“I’m a very private person,” she said. “I mask all of my energies by default, and any attempt to prod at them will be met with dissatisfaction.”

As she spoke, her only movements were the muscles in her face, and even then movement was restricted to her eyes and mouth. During normal conversation, most people moves their body in some way — shrugging their shoulders, tipping their heads, waving their hands, shifting their balance, etc. But Christine was preternaturally still, and Stiles realized that stillness was what had him on edge. She was like a too-tightly-wound predator coiled to strike.

“All right,” he replied slowly, raising his hands placatingly, trying not to show how much he felt like prey. “Sorry.”

Christine bared her teeth in a grin. “Good. Now, let’s go have a bite to eat at my cottage and talk about why you’re here.” She spun away from him and started to walk through the woods, not making a sound as she went.

 

~~~

 

_OK. So. I know I don’t usually do this, but even though Delia is here with me, this chick kinda freaks me out. So I’m at a cabin on Elk Creek River near Boone, North Carolina. Pretty, mountainous, isolated. Like I said... freaky. — SS_

_Her cabin and gardens are gorgeous. But she has some serious shit going on out here. One very enthusiastic and very disturbing stab of an onyx wand in the dirt, and I’m cut off from the land’s magic. — SS_

_Good news? Energy suck from my autonomic use of magic is gone. Bad news? No magic!!! and the chick doesn’t even have a microwave. What are we going to do? Hunt rabbits and roast them over a fire? — SS_

_She tried to feed me a protein bar, Derek. A PROTEIN BAR!!! Is she trying to kill me? Do you know how much artificial crap is in one of those things? — SS_

 

~~~

 

The cottage itself was lovely, a small, white, faded house in the middle of a clearing. It had climbing roses and jasmine tangling up the sides, almost blocking the windows with their heavy blossoms. The scent so thick that Stiles sneezed a few times before he adjusted. The inside was just as white as the outside, from slate floors to whitewashed walls, cabinets, and furniture. The floor plan was completely open. The living space — a sitting room with ceiling-high bookshelves, a couple of soft, over-stuffed reading chairs, a tiny wooden table between them, and a fireplace — took up most of the center. To the right was a kitchen large enough for only one person, with a set of double doors that led to what looked like a massive sunroom. To the left was the sleeping area — a mattress on a stack of pallets, piled high with soft cottons and gossamer. Every available surface was covered in potted plants, crystals, stones, books, and over-filled and wild-looking bouquets in a variety of white or crystal vases.

Stiles let out a low whistle as he toed off his shoes just inside the door. “This is beautiful,” he said. “I mean, it’s not very big, but I actually kind of like that. My dad and I have a big house — it’s at least 1600 square feet — but it’s just the two of us and it can be a little echoey sometimes, you know? But I like this. It’s... what? A third of that size?”

Christine stared at him in amusement and Stiles couldn’t help but be startled by the visual contrast of her bright color in the almost colorless space. “Indeed. Glad you like it. You’ll be here for at least a week if you really want to learn what you’ve asked of me.”

Stiles nodded and swallowed, hefting his bag against his shoulder. He eyed the bed warily before pointedly turning his head towards the only solid door in the room, just to the right of the kitchen, next to the sunroom doors. “Bathroom?”

“Correct,” Christine answered. “You may sleep with me or in the sunroom; I don’t have a preference.” She walked up to him, a little close for Stiles’ comfort, and reached out to take his bag. She spun and dropped it on the bed, smirking.

Stiles choked on a cough, and Delia sat with a thump next to him. They both stared at Christine who continued grinning at Stiles, unapologetic and arrogant. 

“So,” Stiles said, clapping his hands together a bit too loudly for the small space. It echoed off the walls and made him wince. “Why the magic dampener? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”

Christine chuckled and turned to the kitchen. She picked up a kettle from the small electric stove and gave it a quick rinse before filling it again and setting it back to heat. “It’s just until negotiations are over.”

“That’s… unusual practice.” Stiles made his way to one of the chairs — the one with the best view of the kitchen — and dropped ungracefully into it.

Christine snorted. “And how would you know? You’ve been at this for just a few weeks, right?”

Stiles shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “I’m taking the AP route,” he said, trying and failing to hide his defensiveness. 

“Hmmmm…” Christine turned from the stove, sharp eyes narrowed. “I suppose that true. You’ve had almost a dozen of us in just under eight weeks, haven’t you?”

Stiles had to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out with a beautifully appropriate, but surely unwise, sarcastic retort. She’d gone from accusing him of being all but a virgin to a slut in less than ten seconds flat, and Stiles was feeling the bite. There was no mistaking the sexual undertone in her words, nor the seduction clear in the sway of her hips and the curl of her mouth when she moved. He felt like countering with the fact that he’d only had nine instructors so far, but he something told him that comment would just be met with more derision.

“Look…” Stiles started, sitting a little more upright in his chair. Christine cut him off with a delicate finger over his lips as she sank to her knees in front of him.

“It’s not often I invite people into my circle. Might as well take advantage of it,” she said quietly, grinning up at him from her position between his knees. Stiles’ heart started rabbiting frantically in his chest, a heady combination of fear and arousal. Magical negotiation he was familiar with. Sex… well, he was getting more and more familiar with that, too. With the exception of bargaining away his virginity, which had been a fairly straightforward transaction, sex had always been for attraction’s sake. It was separate from the magic entirely; just a bit of fun between two people who wanted it. 

This was different, and Stiles didn’t think he had enough experience yet to understand why. He knew that, even if she was the one kneeling, all the power was completely in her hands. There was a power dynamic at play here that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and it made him both nervous and excited in equal measure.

He sank down in his chair and shifted his hips forward just a few inches. Ten days and he would be back to being weird, spazzy Stiles, ignored and looked down on by most of the teenage population of Beacon Hills. Why the hell shouldn't he enjoy this?

Christine smirked and leaned down to lick over his jean zipper. Stiles closed his eyes and moaned, clawing his fingernails into the arms of the chair to keep himself from thrusting up.

“Lets talk about what you want, first,” she advised, sliding her hands up his thighs.

“Second sight,” Stiles said without hesitation. “Precognition. Fortune-tell _homygod_ …” Stiles cut off as Christine leaned down and unfastened Stiles’ jeans button with her teeth.

“Second sight is easy to learn, believe it or not. It’s just that the consequences are rarely worth it to witches,” Christine said nonchalantly, as if she weren’t slowly pulling Stiles’ zipper down. “But you’ve already got the window open, don’t you? Now it’s just a matter of looking through it in the right way.”

Even the mention of Stiles’ darkness couldn’t quite temper his arousal. “You haven’t said what you want from me yet,” he objected before things could go any further. Stiles was fine with sex — hell, he _loved_ sex — and he was seventeen years old, a year above the age of consent in North Carolina. But he needed to know if this was about magic, or if it was about physical attraction. 

“What will you give me?” she asked, grinning like a shark.

Stiles barely managed to stop himself from saying _anything_ , if only just to pretend to think about it. _Anything_ was dangerous. _Anything_ was stupid. Christine practically sparked with dishonesty, untrustworthiness, and a rank desire for power. Her reputation was too close to the dark witch in the woods for Stiles’ taste, but he was thoroughly sick of being caught off guard. He wanted to get a head of the game. He wanted to step up and see his enemy's moves several paces before they got there. He wanted warning, and accurate threat assessment.

He wanted his dad to be safe.

She reached out and pulled his jeans and boxers down, pushing them past his knees and onto the floor. Stiles bit his lip to keep from moaning again, watching avidly as she licked up from the inside of his knee to his inner thigh.

Stiles would do _anything_ to keep his dad safe, even — as he’d proved just months before — risking death. What _wasn’t_ he willing to give Christine in exchange for her knowledge? 

“I’ll give _almost_ anything.”

 

~~~

 

_She won’t tell me what the trade is yet. It’s been three hours. — SS_

 

**~~~**

 

**August 13, 2013**

“Tarot cards are tools of the trickster. Don’t trust them, but don't ignore them either.” Christine’s voice floated up at him, soft and breathless from where she spoke at his hip. Stiles’ eyes were closed so he could better feel what she was doing to him, and to delight in the unbelievable comfort that was her bed. It was as soft and cloud-like as it had appeared when he first walked in, and magicked so that it somehow wasn’t damp or disgusting after their activities. 

A part of Stiles wanted to stop, to go to sleep, to pick up again after he’d had some rest — three orgasms in four hours was pushing it, even for a teenager — but another part of him didn’t want to _ever_ stop. As petite and breakable as Christine seemed, she was in complete control of Stiles, and he fucking _loved_ it. There was no give and take, no fumbling to figure out what she wanted. There was only doing as he was told while she took her enjoyment from him, and it felt _amazing_. The fact that the sex was intertwined with magic and instruction just made it all the more perfect, and Stiles found it easy to ignore the voice in his head that said he was making a stupid decision.

“I’ll send you home with a deck, even if you already have one. Buying your own is bad luck, you know,” she continued.

Stiles hummed in agreement, still smiling lazily. He kept one hand buried in her soft hair and the other curled above his head, letting her bite and kiss as she wished. 

“The trick to tarot is that you absolutely must get in the habit of reading them every morning. It’s an exercise as much as anything, telling your mind to keep the window open all day so you won’t miss cues or warnings. If you’re in a tight spot, you may want to consider reading them at night before you go to bed as well. Keeping the vision active at night leads to…” Christine sighed, breath tickling Stiles’ hip, before she climbed on top of him to straddle his thighs. “It leads to _interesting_ dreams, shall we say.”

At that, Stiles opened his eyes and watched as she rose onto her knees and positioned herself over him. “Not nightmares,” she said reassuringly. “But not necessarily useful, either. You have to learn to be discerning. You’ve probably heard how visions can be.”

Stiles nodded, words lost to him entirely as she sank down onto him. He threw his head back, mouth open in pleasure, as she started to move.

“Tea leaves are reliable, but frustratingly vague. Divination mirrors are wonderful tools, and you’ll always need a spare because they are constantly breaking. Crystal balls are good for focus, but only if the vision is already there, poking at the edges of your mind.” She leaned down, shifting Stiles inside of her, and he arched, groaning at the overwhelming sensation of being inside her.

“Now let me show you how to do it.” She pressed her thumbs under Stiles’ eyes, her fingertips to his temples, and brushed her lips against his. “Stiles,” she breathed out, the movement of her hips not letting up.

Stiles opened his eyes to look at her, but instead of her face, he saw only muted colors on a black landscape. Her spark — a tiny pink light dancing along a white thread — led him downwards and inwards... to the window he tried so desperately to control. She flung it open, letting the darkness inside of him loose, and he screamed as the images crashed through, flooding his mind. 

 _Follow the thread_ , she demanded, a dark voice in his head, one he was only able to concentrate on due to the rising pleasure building where they were physically connected. He shoved at the invasions in his mind, pushing away everything that wasn’t touched by the thread that pulled away from his mind and far beyond where he could see or feel. 

 _Don’t get lost_ , she chastised as he went further. _Focus on our pleasure. It will bring you back._

Black. Pain. Then bodies and warmth. Blood. Pencils. The images came rapid-fire, too fast for Stiles to focus on, too vague to actually be useful. 

_You’ll get used to it._

_How do I get back?_

Christine’s laugh echoed unpleasantly in his head before the pleasure in his body spiked. Christine was riding him hard and fast, sinking her nails into her shoulders as she bit as his neck and chest. It took only moments before he was coming so hard that everything else vanished from his mind. When the last waves of pleasure receded, he opened his eyes to see her smiling triumphantly down at him. The threads against the black tapestry were gone.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Stiles cursed, body still thrumming with pleasure. “Wow.”

Christine pulled off of him, then got off the bed entirely. It left Stiles feeling cold and a little used.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he said as he sat up, “but that seems incredibly inefficient.”

“Don’t worry,” she dismissed, shrugging on a sheer white sleeveless robe that fell to her ankles. “I just needed to show you how to get there, and how to get back. Now that you’ve got the internal geography established, we can go from there.”

As Stiles pulled off the condom and threw it in the trash, he realized, with no small amount of discomfort, that he had no idea if she’d gotten any pleasure out of it. “Did you, uh…” he asked, waving his hand vaguely.

Her smirk was wicked and not comforting in the least. “Don’t worry,” she repeated. “I’m getting what I want from you.”

 

**August 15, 2013**

_Where are you? I know you haven’t exactly sent out a Christmas card update, but a location might be handy. For reasons. — SS_

_And by reasons I mean I_

_whr r u_

 

~~~

 

The pain was excruciating, but Stiles managed to pull it together just enough to put his phone back in his pocket. His eyes were squeezed closed in agony — opening them was absolutely out of the question — and he cursed the fact that he never bothered learning how to use voice-to-text. Even if he did get a hold of Derek, the chances that he was anywhere near close enough to get Stiles out of here in the next few hours were distressingly slim.

“Delia,” he rasped, her steady growling and snapping breaking through the foggy haze. The threatening noises didn’t stop, but Delia did come closer — close enough to touch, which was all Stiles needed.

They had to get the fuck out of here. The bargain was done and Christine had what she wanted; she wasn’t going to stop him from leaving now. In fact, she’d helped him get dressed, laughing the whole time as her spell worked, worming its painful way through his mind. She thrust his backpack in his hands, then leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “Thanks, lover.”

 _Home_ , he thought desperately, a quick image of the cliff dancing across through his mind. _Home, home, home_ …

 

~~~

 

Derek’s first thought, when he heard a crash from the next room over and caught the unmistakable burnt ozone scent of magic, was that he was _sick of this shit_. He was in New York, for fuck’s sake; he wasn’t bothering anyone. What they hell did they — whoever the mysterious ‘they’ was — want now?

With a growl of irritation, Derek smacked his library book, _Lost Plantations of the South_ , on the coffee table. He ran his hands through his hair and gave a glance around the apartment, but it was no use. He didn’t keep anything defensive here; it was a building full of werewolves, after all. No idiot would dare break in and try to attack any of them.

Then the screaming started, and Derek didn’t even bother to grab his cell to call building security. He’d recognize that voice anywhere. _Stiles_.

On the floor of Derek’s bedroom, thrashing hard enough on the brown carpet to cause little sparks of static electricity to run from the floor to his hair, t-shirt, and jeans, Stiles was locked in the rigid jerks and jolts of someone being tortured. Delia was sprawled out next to him, unmoving despite occasionally catching an elbow to her small body. Stiles shook and twisted in on himself, mouth snapping painfully shut as the pain reached a level that seemed to cut off even Stiles’ ability to vocalize it.

“Stiles? Stiles!” Derek landed on his knees next to the pair, hands hovering over Stiles’ warm skin even as he was too afraid to touch. There was no physical sign of anything being wrong, but Stiles was too far gone ask.

Beside Stiles, Delia whined and barked and snapped her teeth helplessly at air. Derek spared her only a glance, though, before going back to try and figure out what the hell to do about her master. Hesitantly, he put a hand over the back of Stiles’ neck, which didn’t seem to be injured, and tried to pull the pain away.

Derek’s vision went black and he felt a brutal tug of pure _greed_ course through him. It didn’t come from Stiles, but from somewhere else, somewhere dark, and Derek yanked his hand back before whatever _it_ was could follow through on its desire to _take_.

“Shit, _shit_ ,” Derek barked out as he fell backwards on his ass. Whatever he did had some effect, however — Stiles’ jaw seemed to loosen enough to actually allow him to scream again. But at least Derek had figured out that Stiles wasn’t actually injured. Not physically, at least. He was in the grip of something that was stealing his energy. Maybe if he didn’t try to take the pain, Derek thought, he could just touch Stiles. 

Tentatively, he laid his hand flat on Stiles’ back and was relieved to find no sensation beyond cotton flannel, body-warm and worn soft. Stiles’ screams didn’t stop, but they did lower just enough in volume to prove that Derek’s touch did have some sort of effect. Stiles’ thrashing hadn’t stopped, but it did ease.

“Stiles?” Derek whispered, desperate to calm him. He stared down at Stiles’ contorted face, his eyes scrunched closed in agony, and brushed a thumb over the wrinkle between Stiles’ eyes before he thought better of it. But even as he yanked his hand back from Stiles' bare skin, Stiles was shuddering in relief at the contact. No power drain followed.

As long as he didn’t try to take Stiles’ pain, the energy suck wouldn’t affect him.

To test the theory, Derek put boths his hands on Stiles’ face, palms flat over the sharp edges of his cheekbones. Stiles’ screams almost immediately quieted to the point of hiccuping sobs, and Derek sagged in relief.

“You better not kill me for this,” Derek grumbled as he started stripping Stiles of his clothes. “Of _course_ it has to be skin-to-skin. You can’t do anything the easy way, can you?”

Easy definitely wasn’t the word for it; every time he took away even one of his hands, Stiles contorted again, mouth opening to continue his pained cries. But werewolf strength came in handy for manipulating Stile's body, and though Stiles would have bruises later, it wasn’t long before he was free of everything but his Star Wars boxers. Grimacing, Derek tore his hands away only long enough to strip off his own t-shirt and jeans before stretching Stiles out flat on his stomach. Then he laid on top of him. 

The effect was immediate. Stiles took a deep shuddering breath and relaxed into the floor on an exhale. His screams stopped entirely, though they were replaced by whimpers and cries that weren’t quite muffled enough to not attract attention.  Not ready to explain Stiles’ presence to anyone — Derek’s parents weren’t the only wolves to dislike witches on principle — he cupped his hand over Stiles’ mouth and started murmuring meaningless words of comfort in his ear. He could hear Delia shuffling around, but didn’t bother to look. Then she grunted and collapsed over where Derek and Stiles’ feet were tangled together. 

Though Stiles calmed, any time Derek tried to move away the pained cries started right up again. Derek didn’t think Stiles was actually consciously aware of his actions or surroundings, and that scared Derek more than anything. If it weren’t for the fact that he could slowly feel the magic ebb away, Derek would have been panicking. Deaton was nearly 3,000 miles away, and he rarely answered Derek’s calls anymore — even if Derek could reach his phone. There was a healer in Derek’s building, but Derek was reluctant to call her for a witch.

There was no denial left, no tiny shred of hope that perhaps Stiles was just going through a phase of obsession and that he would soon give it up. Stiles was marked from head to toe with scars and tattoos that he would never be able to get rid of even if he tried, and they hummed with the force of his power. It was almost shocking, the transformation — in a few short months, Stiles had gone from scrawny, bitchy teenager to a force to be reckoned with. If Derek didn’t know him, he would be afraid of him. And the healer would be afraid of him, too. That would _not_ be helpful.

Stiles slowly started to calm under Derek’s weight, and Derek geared up to offer the lecture of a lifetime. He was sure that this, whatever this was, had probably been, at least on the surface, consensual. Just a couple days ago Stiles had texted Derek about the new witch he was going to apprentice with, and Scott hadn't said anything about any new threats. Stiles was no longer a person someone could just  _take_  something from, and over the last few months he’d proven over and over again that he was willing to give up —  _trade_ ,  _dammit_ , Derek thought with a growl — a lot of things in the pursuit of power and knowledge. 

But there was hard deadline coming up, Derek suddenly realized with sudden, intense relief. School started soon. Cora was going back the second week of September, but NYC Public started later than California public schools. He’d have to check with Scott, who he’d kept in contact with since he’d helped with the argopelter, but Derek was pretty sure that Stiles would be starting back at Beacon Hills again within the next week. A few days, Derek thought silently. He’d tie Stiles to the damn bed if he had to. 

Before that thought could go anywhere, Stiles coughed and twitched. Derek moved his hand away as Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but only a raw rasp broke free. Then Stiles swallowed and tried again.

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Stiles,” Derek growled, anger coursing through him. _Who are you_ was Stiles’ first question? Derek could feel his eyes burn ice blue as he wondered just how many times Stiles had woken up naked, or nearly so, in the presence of strangers.

“Derek?”

“Yes, you idiot.”

Stiles exhaled in something that sounded like relief, and the tension that had begun to build in his shoulder blades melted away again. “What are you doing in Beacon Hills again? I thought the last two times were the last.”

Derek lifted his head and stared down at Stiles’ exhausted face, confused. “We’re not in Beacon Hills. You’re in my apartment in Brooklyn.”

“New York?” 

“Yes.” Derek didn’t have it in him to be sarcastic or snappish at Stiles’ confusion; he was too busy mulling over the fact that Stiles hadn’t come here on purpose. 

“You’re heavy,” Stiles mumbled sleepily. “Not that I’m complaining. Feels good. You have nice skin. Warm and blankety and… good.”

“What the fuck, Stiles?” Derek growled out. He pulled back to kneel over Stiles’ lower back, and Stiles gasped out shocked displeasure. Derek could almost see the scream building in Stiles’ throat, so he flung himself back over Stiles in a preemptive strike. Fear tugged at his stomach as he rested his forehead on Stiles’ neck, then put one hand over Stiles’ mouth and the other on the crown of his head.

“You’re going to have everyone in here if you start screaming again,” he muttered in warning. 

“S'rry,” Stiles slurred through Derek’s hand. 

“How did you get here?” Derek asked, sighing and moving his hand but nothing else.

“Don’t know,” Stiles mumbled distractedly. “I was trying to get to the Preserve.”

“The Preserve?”

“Home.”

 _Home_. Derek wondered if Stiles recognized the significance of his little magical detour. Home, where you felt safe. Cared for. Loved, even. It was a feeling more than actual geography. _Fucking hell_ , Derek realized. He was Stiles’ goddamn anchor. How the fuck had that happened?

“Do you have supplies here?” Stiles asked. _Magic supplies_ , Derek’s brain supplied. Like Stiles needed more fucking magic.

“No,” he replied gruffly. “I don’t need them here.”

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbled again, freeing a hand from where it had been crushed against the carpet under his chest.

“Stop saying that.”

Stiles did stop — he stopped moving, stopped talking; he even stopped breathing for a minute. Derek was about to shake him, ask him what the hell was going on, when a bunch of supplies suddenly appeared on the carpet in front of them. Derek recognized raw blue kyanite, malachite, and black onyx in a little pile of myrrh and sweet woodruff, which had a blue tealight candle in the middle. Stiles lifted his head to blow on the candle to light it, and another breath set the myrrh and woodruff to smouldering. Oddly, his eyes didn’t open once.

“By earth, water, fire, and air, may you hear me. Sources of life and light, sources of the day and night, I invoke you. Heal my body and mind,” Stiles chanted quietly. “By earth, water, fire, and air, may you hear me. Sources of life and light, sources of the day and night, I invoke you. Heal my body and mind.” The smell of the burning herbs and resin tickled Derek’s nose, he felt Stiles shudder as he repeated the incantation.

Only a few minutes later, Stiles finally had enough strength give Derek a push, and Derek took the hint. He rolled off as Stiles pulled himself into a cross-legged sitting position. He kept chanting the healing incantation over and over, stopping every once and awhile to conjure more supplies. Derek got up to get him a glass water, but when he stretched out his arm to offer it, Stiles didn’t take it. A quick double-check revealed that Stiles had, indeed, opened his eyes at some point, but they weren’t focused on anything.

Derek frowned and waved his eyes in front of Stiles’ face, but Stiles didn’t even blink.

“Stop it,” Stiles huffed. “It’s mean to make fun of blind people.”

Derek’s breath caught in his throat and he found himself frozen in place. Blind? Stiles was fucking _blind_?! What the hell had he done? 

“Stiles,” he breathed out, horrified.

“Not now,” Stiles answered quickly but with obvious resignation. Then he went back to chanting.

After a moment’s hesitation, Derek exhaled slowly. Then he pressed the water glass into Stiles’ hand and went back to sitting on the floor across from Stiles. 

It was too much. Stiles needed to stop, and Derek would _make_ him, if he had to. He was losing too much, taking risks whose costs weren't worth the reward. Stiles was healing himself, sure, but was he guaranteed to get his sight back? Was that what the power-sucking spell was? It was stealing his vision? Or something else?

How could Derek make him see that this was ridiculously dangerous and unhealthy? How could he get him to stop? Stiles had said before that he was able to, but that it would be like asking Derek to rip himself free of his wolf. The thought made Derek’s gut twist and his inner instinct-driven nature roar in fury. He’d never let that happen. Would he be capable of letting it happen to Stiles?

 _No_ , he realized suddenly as he watched Stiles, exhausted but full of quiet determination, heal himself. Anchor or not, Derek was too far gone in his attachment to Stiles. The thought of someone, even himself, hurting Stiles by ripping him in half made his chest ache and his wolf roar. 

It was both shocking and disappointing. 

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

 


	7. Chapter 7

**August 16, 2013**

 

“Stiles?” 

There was a gentle pressure on Stiles’ jaw and he cracked open his eyes instinctively. He still couldn’t see, but instead of pitch black, at least now there was light and fuzzy shapes. Everything was overlaid with a white fog, but Stiles knew that was the haze of his magic rather than anything more nefarious. He’d never looked at himself in the mirror when he was like this and he wondered if the white changed the actual color of his eyes — the way werewolf eyes changed — or if it were a swirl of mist that hovered over his irises like clouds.

“Stiles?” The pressure left Stiles’ face and a shadow swept over his vision, breaking him out of the ramble of unfocused thoughts.

“No, Derek, I still can’t see,” Stiles said, sighing. “But I’ve gone from complete black to shadows and light, so it shouldn’t be too much longer before it’s fixed.”

“All right,” Derek replied, his voice low and dangerously taut. The sound of movement — soft fabrics rustling over skin — hit Stiles’ ears, and he realized that Derek was moving away from him. 

“I didn’t burn your carpet, did I? Or transport my sorry ass here in front of a non-supernat roomie or anything?” Stiles asked, an odd twinge of nervousness tugging at his gut.

“No,” Derek said in the same not-quite-snappish tone. 

“Okaaaay…” Stiles said hesitantly. “Well, I apologize anyway. And for dropping in on you unannounced.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Dude, you know I can detect lies almost as easily as you can now, right?” Well, that wasn’t _technically_ true, not at the moment at least. Stiles was able to detect lies due to the changing wavelengths of energy and flickering auric light — none of which he could actually see at the moment. But Derek was acting oddly, and Stiles thought it was a cheap bet to go with anger. The man used it as his damn anchor, for crying out loud.

“I’m not talking about this right now,” Derek said with a growl. 

It was disconcerting, not being able to see Derek’s face or read his body language, but Stiles knew him well enough to visualize what Derek probably looked like: frowning, arms crossed over his chest, body stiff with tension.

“Waiting until I can see isn’t going to make a difference,” Stiles dismissed. “I can’t really go anywhere anyw—” 

“Waiting until you can see?” Derek interrupted, voice hard and higher-pitched than normal. “And what, exactly, guarantees that you _are_ going to be able to see again?”

“Oh, is that what you’re upset about?” Stiles asked, waving a hand. “Don’t worry. She said…”

“She?” Derek asked, his tone now low and dangerous. Stiles closed his mouth with a snap, straining to listen as Derek moved. He felt a warm rush of air in front of his face and saw a dark blur sink in front of him. Tentatively, Stiles reached out. He flinched when his fingertips crashed into what felt like Derek’s shoulder, but he didn’t pull his hand back. Derek hadn’t stopped being a positive, grounding energy for Stiles, and he closed his eyes as the feeling of being centered sped through his veins.

“I just read your texts,” Derek said, and a moment later Stiles felt a warm hand wrapped around his own where it rested on Derek’s shoulder. “I didn’t see them until after you were well enough to start meditating here.” 

“Oh,” Stiles replied rather lamely. He had a moment to wish he’d been in a state to see Derek’s probably shocked reaction when Stiles just popped into existence in Brooklyn, of all places, before getting a sudden visual of what _he_ might have looked like. How he might have _smelled_ to a panicked werewolf. Shit. “Um, you probably want to know what happened.”

“I have to admit, I’m curious,” Derek said, voice going oddly even. “At first I thought you were being tortured. Then I tried to take your pain, and realized someone was literally sucking your magic out of you. Then I managed to calm you down, keep you quiet enough not to attract attention, and that was good.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Then you started healing yourself, and I thought, thank god. Everything will be fine.”

Derek stopped, and Stiles shifted uncomfortably on the floor. This was a loaded silence he didn’t know how to read.

“Then you quit your healing spell and moved into meditation. The burnt ozone smell of magic and the acrid, adrenaline scent of fear faded enough for me to smell what else had happened to you.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Stiles interrupted, cringing at the implication.

“Like what?” Derek challenged.

“Nothing _happened_ to me. It was all consensual. I mean, sure, the consequences of our trade were a little more, uh, painful than I’d anticipated…” Stiles rubbed his hand over his neck and grimaced.

“Painful?” Derek mocked. “Stiles, you’re fucking _blind_! Blind and terrified and reeking of sex!”

“It’s only temporary!”

“Wait, are you saying you knew this would happen?”

“Yes!” Stiles yelled back, throwing his hands up. “Yes, okay? That aura-sensing thing I told you about? Turns out, it’s kind of a special skill. I can intuitively see what it takes other witches _years_ to learn, alright? So, uh, she borrowed my sight for a bit. Just to get a feel for what she’s supposed to be looking for.”

There was a pause, and Stiles strained to hear for any sign that Derek was moving away from him. But there was nothing until Derek finally spoke, no longer with a tense and angry voice, but one unnaturally low and free of inflection. “If you knew it was going to happen, and everything that happened to you there was consensual, why were you panicking?”

Stiles shifted, frowning. God how he wished he could see Derek’s face. “She didn’t tell me it would hurt.”

“If you hadn’t come to me, would you have been able to focus enough to start the healing spell? Or would you have been stuck in that state for days?”

 _He’d be stuck_ , he realized immediately. Christine was an experienced and clever woman. She knew damn well that Stiles’ transport spell would exacerbate the pain, and she had no idea that Stiles was part of a werewolf pack. That particular detail was one he took pains to hide from everyone but Aria. Stiles would have ended his geography jump in agony, without the means to focus on healing. But it was worse than that. Stiles knew damn well he wouldn’t have been able to live with that for three days. His heart would have given out long before then. 

She meant to kill him and steal his abilities.

“I’ll take care of it,” Derek growled, nails growing sharp against Stiles’ bare shoulders. “No one is going to hurt you anymore.”

Stiles sighed, simultaneously pleased with Derek’s protectiveness and annoyed with the whole idea of going after Christine. 

“I’m not objecting on principle,” he said slowly. “But it’s not as easy as you think. Like I said, she technically didn’t do anything wrong, except under-inform me. And if we hurt her, there will be other witches to answer to. We’d need a damn good, provable-through-evidence reason, and I’m not sure she’s worth the trouble. We could just spread the word about her, and let nature take it’s course.”

“Stiles,” Derek growled in warning, but before he could start to argue further, Delia whined from where she’d been curled against him, and Stiles pulled back to rub his hand in her hair. She whimpered again, and Stiles frowned.

“What’s the matter with Delia?” he asked, running his hands over her. She didn’t feel injured, but she wasn’t behaving normally, either. “Derek? I can’t — Derek? Is she okay?”

Stiles could hear Derek as he shuffled on his knees, then the gentle rocking of Delia’s body as Derek touched her. Panic started to skip through Stiles’ body as he tried to remember his last few moments at Christine’s. Had Delia tried to defend Stiles at some point? Had she tried to hurt Christine, only to get injured?

“I don’t see anything... Stiles. Stiles, you have to calm down. Look.” Derek grabbed Stiles’ hand and ran it down Delia’s head, side, and flank. “There aren’t any injuries. There’s no blood. Calm down.”

“Something’s wrong with her!” Stiles protested, unfolding his long legs and barely noticing that he’d kicked Derek in the process. “No blood doesn’t mean she’s not hurt!” He closed his eyes, shutting out the useless blur of shades of light and dark, feeling out Delia’s energy as best he could in his weakened state. He still had to battle the lessening tug of Christine’s greed, and though it was fading, Stiles wouldn’t be able to do any heavy lifting, magic-wise, for awhile. 

He pressed his forehead between Delia’s shoulders and blocked everything out, searching for the cause of her distress. He _had_ to be able to fix her. She was the one companion Stiles had who went with him everywhere without question, stuck by his side no matter what stupid shit he did, and didn’t judge him. And unlike anyone else in Stiles’ life, she hadn’t ended up with him by default. To her, Stiles wasn’t someone she’d just been stuck with since childhood, or someone who was part of the package deal with Scott. She was the first creature in Stiles’ life that simply _chose_ him, and Stiles couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he whispered, but all she did was twitch and whine. “Bad time to revert, damnit, Delia. Use words!”

“Stiles?” Derek said cautiously, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “She’s not—”

“A spell, Derek, and a charm! She can talk, she just chooses not to most of the—” Stiles cut himself off mid-rant and reached down, following the strong curve of Delia’s shoulder to her paw. The charm was gone. “Do you see it? Leather, wood, rune, my blood.”

“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” Derek muttered, but Delia’s body twitched as Derek checked all four of her paws for what Stiles had described.

“It’s not here.”

“Is there a witch here? In your building, or close by?” Stiles asked breathlessly, torn between curling up with Delia and backing away entirely, not sure if either would help or hurt his dog. 

“No,” Derek said with a sigh, and Stiles could imagine the pinched look on his face.

“This is New York City!” Stiles hissed. “There have to be thousands of witches here.”

“Know any?” Derek snapped back. “And this is a _werewolf_ communal building.”

Stiles stroked Delia’s muzzle gently and shook his head, fighting back tears. “Some day you’re going to tell me about this bigotry of yours.”

“It’s not _mine_ ,” Derek started argue, but Stiles cut him off.

“I need a hand mirror or an aluminum bowl with water, a knife, and blue lace agate,” he demanded.

“I have the bowl and knife, but not the stone,” Derek replied, cautious.

With a huff, Stiles concentrated on his supplies back home and brought an agate to his hand. “Just the water and knife is fine.”

The sound of scuffling filled Stiles’ ears, soon followed by Derek’s retreating feet, and Stiles busied himself trying to figure out who he was going to summon. It had to be someone who was capable of transporting, which narrowed the list a lot, and someone who he trusted, which narrowed it even further. If it were just about him, he’d have no problem calling anyone he’d come into contact with since he’d started his apprenticeships, but this was _Delia_. No experiments allowed; they had to get it right the first time.

“I haven’t actually learned any real healing yet beyond basic first aid,” Stiles confessed as he heard Derek return to the room. “It’s a much more rare skill, and a more costly one because you can never avoid risking your own health by tangling with someone elses’.”

“We have a healer,” Derek offered as he set the bowl, sloshy with water, next to Stiles’ knee. “A werewolf healer might have better luck with Delia than a witch.”

“I don’t think so,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “This is about Christine, and what she took, and is trying to take.”

“Which is?”

“Can I have the knife, please?”

“Why can’t you just make a phone call like a normal person?”

“A lot of reasons,” Stiles said, holding his hand out. “Not the least of which is that I don’t actually have his phone number.”

“His?” Derek asked, pressing the plastic handle of what felt like a kitchen knife into Stiles’ palm.

“Tom.”

“You’re calling another witch to my apartment?” Derek asked, a hint of alarm creeping into his voice. “Great.”

Stiles ignored him as he drew a cut over the middle part of his pointer finger. The tip was pretty scarred by now and harder to slice, so he was working his way down. Derek hissed in sympathy and took the knife away, but Stiles didn’t object. He held his hand over the bowl and focused on Thomas’ essence as the blood dripped into the water.

“Stiles?” a familiar, calm voice called out quietly, and Stiles tilted his head down towards the bowl even though he couldn’t see Tom’s face reflected back.

“I need help.”

“Obviously.” Tom’s voice was even but not dismissive, and Stiles fought the urge to hold his breath

“It’s Delia.”

“Your familiar.”

“Can you come?”

There was a moment of silence, and Stiles desperately wished he could see Tom’s face. He wanted to know if Tom was annoyed, or eager to curry a favor or a trade from Stiles. He really hoped it was the latter.

“All right.” There was a snap of magic, causing the little hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck to stand up, and he felt the presence of Thomas before he felt the movement and saw the shadows of another person joining him, Delia, and Derek in the room.

“Holy shit,” Derek muttered under his breath as he, probably unconsciously, pressed himself against Stiles’ side. Stiles couldn’t imagine what had Derek so spooked; Tom was nearly fifty and completely unassuming. He was graying, tall and thin, and never wore anything but khaki pants and a 90s band t-shirt. He wasn't strong, physically speaking, but he did have lithe frame of a marathoner. 

“Werewolves?” Tom asked with a hint of disgust in his voice.

“A whole building full of them,” Derek responded, and Stiles winced at the obvious threat in his voice.

Fortunately, Tom ignored him. Stiles listened and tracked the shadows as Tom sat down across from where Stiles was still kneeling at Delia’s side, Derek standing at his shoulder.

“What do you want in payment?” Stiles asked, not willing to wait.

“First tell me exactly what’s going on,” Tom replied.

“I wanted to learn precognition, and the same name kept coming up over and over again when I was in Chicago. Supposedly the witch they mentioned was powerful and a recluse, but she’d take on promising students if they could meet her price,” Stiles started. “I couldn’t find anyone who’d actually studied with her, but I just thought it was because of everything surrounding precog.”

“What does that mean?” Derek interrupted. 

“Anyone who studies precognition has to meet certain criteria to do it successfully,” Tom answered. “They have to already be deep enough into their studies to have a working window into the next plane. They also have to have a certain…” Tom hesitated. “A certain mental capacity. Atypical neurology, I guess you could call it.”

“Historically, they’ve been labeled as just plain crazy,” Stiles offered. “For me, it’s my ADHD. For once, the fact that my brain works so differently from everyone else’s is a serious advantage.”

“The other criteria have to do with power and anchoring,” Tom added. “Stiles’ reputation has come on the scene fast enough that this precog of yours probably didn’t hesitate to accept your offer.”

“There was no offer,” Stiles admitted. “I sent her an e-mail, telling her I wanted to study. She sent an e-mail back with coordinates.”

“You negotiated onsite?” Tom asked incredulously, and Stiles nodded. “That was stupid, Stiles.”

“I’m short on time,” Stiles defended. “School starts in a week.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to wait until your next break?”

“Look, I want to learn as much as I can as fast as I can,” Stiles huffed, stroking through Delia’s hair. He cut himself off before he could explain _why_ — he didn’t want Tom, or anyone, really, to know about Beacon Hills and his pack there. He wanted to be extremely powerful, and ready to fend off anyone, before the world at large could trace him back to Beacons Hills. “Anyway, once I got there, we decided that she’d teach me everything she could in exchange for a tour of my ability to see and sense the next plane.”

“Not just a tour,” Tom replied, and Stiles could feel the hand sweeping in front of his eyes. Derek didn't seem to like that; he sat next to Stiles and let out a little growl. “You must have been very intimate with her to learn the basics in such a short amount of time, and to give her this much back.”

Derek stiffened next to Stiles, and Stiles shifted uncomfortably. “Everything was fine until just before I left. It wasn’t just my eyesight she took. She tapped into my energy and started siphoning it out of me like I was Slurpee. I knew she was going to borrow some, but I didn’t think… And it hurt. A lot.”

“There’s more,” Tom prompted when Stiles stopped.

“I didn’t tell her about Derek, or my connection with werewolves at all,” Stiles said slowly.

“You haven’t told anyone,” Tom said, and Stiles nodded, refusing to feel guilty.

“Without Derek’s abilities, I probably would have died,” Stiles said plainly. “He couldn’t actively heal me because Christine’s spell tried to steal that, too, but his innate magic was enough.”

“Shit,” Tom said sadly. “All right. First, we stop the drain. Then we restore your sight.”

“I don’t care about me. Delia first.”

“Your familiar?” Tom asked, surprised, and a curl of anger tightened in Stiles’ gut.

“Yes, my familiar!” he exclaimed. “I’m fine. I’ll heal. But there is something wrong with her. I made her a charm so we could communicate. She could talk to me through the charm’s direct connection with the language part of my brain.”

“And it’s gone.”

“Yes.”

“So she’s got your spelled blood.”

“Yes!”

“Stiles,” Derek soothed, running a gentle hand down Stiles’ back.

“Sorry,” Stiles said, taking a deep breath.

“Do you know why she took it?” Tom asked, and Stiles couldn’t help feel like Tom knew already; he was just putting Stiles on the spot for a teachable moment.

“I assume she wants long-term access to my brain, too — probably what she thought would be the rest of my life.” Stiles huffed. “Stupid bitch. It’s not pretty in here.”

Derek made a pained sound, and Tom, damn him, chuckled.

“All right,” Tom said, amusement still coloring his words. “We can fix it. We’ll get you a counter charm until you can take back the other one. Her connection to you has to be severed before we can figure out the root cause of Delia’s illness. It might simply be a proxy effect.”

“Fine.”

“Then we’ll fix your sight. Then, if Delia still needs help, we can tackle that.”

“And in return?” Derek asked, his hand on Stiles’ back settling on his nape.

“A favor of equal magnitude for an equally valid reason,” Tom said, and Stiles could hear the shrug not just in the fabric of his shirt, but in his voice.

“That’s… unusually generous,” Stiles said, surprised.

“I think you’ve been used enough for awhile,” Tom said with a chuckle. “Besides, it’s always a good thing to be owed a favor by one of the most powerful witches in the Western hemisphere.”

Stiles laughed, shaking his head. “Hardly,” he protested. He’d heard the legends of some of the most famous witches in the world during his travels, and he didn’t hold a candle to any of them.

Tom hummed but didn’t argue. “Well, then, shall we get this show on the road?”

 

~~~

 

It took two days, and Derek felt on edge the entire time. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Tom; in fact, he couldn’t help but appreciate the man’s low-key approach and straightforward technique when it came to dealing with Stiles. He didn’t push or argue, but merely presented his opinion and Stiles options, and sat back and let Stiles decide for himself. Derek knew that Tom had been one of Stiles’ very first mentors, and he wondered how he had learned so quickly what it took Derek years to understand. 

But the fact was that witches and werewolves didn’t get along, never had, and Derek was constantly worried about someone walking in and finding Derek harboring not one, but _two_ of them. It wouldn’t bode well for him at all; he’d probably get kicked out, at the very least. At worst, there would be blood. Cora liked it here, and the thought of leaving on bad terms didn't sit well with Derek.

Cora, who’d refused to come home once since Derek had texted her with a rundown of what was going on.

As much as Derek understood, he couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt. Derek had moved back here for her. He liked the lifestyle, sure, but he didn’t need it the way Cora seemed to. Even though Derek wasn’t part of Scott’s pack, he still had felt more at home there than he did in New York.

The reason for which was currently fast asleep in Derek’s bed.

“We’re done,” Tom said from where he was sitting crosslegged on the floor next to the radiator. He looked up at Derek, raising his thin, gray eyebrows in a way that left Derek feeling skewered by Tom’s intense bottle-green eyes. “Hope you don’t mind I’m in here. I know how your kind can be about personal territory, but I’m cold.”

Though he’d never admit it, Derek was secretly pleased that Tom had kept watch over Stiles. He shrugged and started pulling off his work boots and wool socks. “How is Delia?” he asked, glancing at her exhausted form, curled at the foot of the bed.

“Fine. I was right, it was a drain by proxy. Make sure neither of them take off their charms before you get the original one back.” With that, Tom stood and stretched, then flattened his Nine Inch Nails shirt over his stomach. “Christine is going on a community-wide alert, though. If she’s smart, she’ll vanish.”

“No she won’t. I won’t let her,” Derek growled as he shrugged off his overshirt.

Tom chuckled, smiling appreciatively at Derek’s enthusiasm, and Derek frowned. “I don’t think you have to worry too much. Stiles is absolutely furious. He wouldn’t have bothered with her if she hadn’t hurt his familiar, but all bets are off now. She made a very stupid error, and it is going to cost her.”

Derek glanced at Stiles’ sleeping form, curled in a fetal position on the bed, blanket pulled up to his chin, skin even paler than usual. His lips were red and swollen from the repeated licking of his lips he’d done to keep them wet for the endless chanting, and his long eyelashes were stark against his cheeks. It was hard to imagine Stiles — 17, sarcastic, and humanly fragile — as someone who was a grave threat to a person like Christine. It was an adjustment in worldview Derek wasn’t entirely prepared to make.

“Best be off,” Tom said, interrupting his thoughts. “Let him stay at least through tonight, and tomorrow if he’ll let you. Keep him from going after Christine for at least a few weeks — it’s going to take some time for his energy levels to be restored. Don’t let him magic himself back to Beacon Hills. Drive or fly him if you can. The charms don’t work on the second plane, and Christine might be waiting for him there, now that she can see it well enough.”

“Fucking witches,” Derek huffed before he could stop himself.

Much to his surprise, Tom didn’t lash out at him, however. He merely sighed and shook his head. “I’ve never understood the animosity that keeps our kinds from getting along.”

“You’re peddlers,” Derek huffed, sitting gently on the edge of the bed. “Salesman. You never do anything just to be kind or helpful. There always has to be a trade.”

Tom glanced at Stiles, like he was making a decision, then looked back at Derek, his stare hard. “If you want things between you and him to work out, you need to understand something.” He bent a little so he could meet Derek’s eyes. “That isn’t because we’re greedy. That is the nature of magic. And as long as it’s negotiated properly, it keeps powerful people from doing _anything_ on accident, which — as you can imagine — could be disastrous.”

Surprised, Derek sat a little straighter. 

“Furthermore, werewolves are all about primality and being aggressive predators. Even the kindest ones. It goes against our nature to let anything like that into our lives because it messes with our balance. A witch _cannot_ afford to give in to primality. Think about all the stories you’ve heard about that happening in folklore. It never ends well.”

 _Not just folklore_ , Derek thought bitterly, thinking about Jennifer. “I’d never thought about it that way,” he confessed.

“Of course you haven’t,” Tom said, straightening. “Our kinds are taught bigotry before acceptance when it comes to werewolf/witch relations. I know this is new for Stiles, and for you, but there is going to have to be some acceptance on your part before his attachment to you gets any deeper.”

“Attachment?” Derek asked, heart beating faster. He broke Tom’s gaze and glanced back at Stiles.

“You know what I mean,” Tom said. “Talk to him about it. But I, for one, am leaving. No offense, but I hope I don’t see you any time soon.”

“Likewise,” Derek said, standing. He took Tom’s proffered hand and shook it gently. “Thank you.”

“Good luck.” With a wink and a snap of ozone, Tom was gone.

Derek stood from the bed, grabbed sleep pants and a t-shirt from his dresser, and made his way to the shower. As he cleaned the days’ grime from his skin, he thought about what Tom had said. And what Tom _hadn’t_ said. 

There was a choice in Derek’s future. Stiles wasn’t going to move to New York any time soon, whether Derek was his anchor or not. And obviously a long-distance connection couldn’t work; Stiles needed a physical connection to help him when he was at his lowest. The question was whether this tentative thing between them — whatever it meant on an interpersonal level — was enough to make Derek reconsider New York.

The problem was that Cora wouldn’t go. And Derek wasn’t even necessarily sure he wanted her to.

It was only a little after seven when Derek finished his shower and brushed his teeth, but he didn’t hesitate to climb into bed behind Stiles, careful to avoid jostling Delia. Stiles reacted immediately to his presence, curling into Derek’s body, tugging his arms so that Stiles was completely enclosed in Derek’s embrace. Though they were both relatively close in height, Derek liked the way Stiles fit when tucked into the curve of his wider frame. He freed one hand long enough to reach for the quilt, then pulled Stiles as close as physically possible. 

Stiles stirred when Derek started pulling some of his pain from him. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

“You’re welcome,” Derek offered, relaxing as Stiles didn’t try to free himself, but rather threaded his fingers through Derek’s. “Stiles?”

“Hmmm?”

“Why did you end up here?” he asked. _Derek_ knew why Stiles was here. Hell, even Tom knew. But did _Stiles_?

Stiles wiggled, and Derek bit back a groan at the probably unintentional press of Stiles’s ass to his groin. “I told you,” Stiles said sleepily. “I’m not sure. I was trying to get home.”

“Tom said witches have anchors, too,” Derek offered hesitantly.

To his surprise, Stiles chuckled under his breath. “Awesome. That’s handy.” Then he yawned and nuzzled at Derek’s arm.

“That’s it?” Derek asked. No surprise? No wondering why it wasn’t Scott or his dad or, hell, Delia? No remarks on their previously antagonistic relationship?

Stiles grunted. “You’re safe,” he choked out around another yawn. 

Derek bit back the urge to ask him to take that back. “Get some sleep.”

Stiles kissed Derek’s hand — a light brush of lips — then sank back into unconsciousness, and Derek stayed awake for hours, feeling the phantom tingle of Stiles’ mouth on his skin.


	8. Chapter 8

**August 17, 2013**

 

_“Almost two thousand feet deep,” she whispered in his ear, her voice sweet like honey and burning like poison. “Second deepest hole on Earth.”_

_Stiles turned around in circles, trying to see something, anything, other than black. He knew that the darkness wasn’t because he’d lost his sight again — this was a whole different kind of black — but there was nothing for his sanity to hold onto. He stretched his arms out, feeling for something, anything, to give him an idea of where he was; nothing but ice, however, greeted his desperate fingertips._

_“Steel shatters here,” the voice whispered. “Even malleable rubber freezes. And yet, here is where I’ll burn you. Reduce you to ash and take everything that you worked so hard for.”_

_Flames rose from the earth beneath his feet, from the very center of earth itself, Stiles imagined, and there was nothing he could do. He was consumed, wrapped in orange and yellow and blue and white, and there wasn’t time to fight back. All he could do was scream out his agony and wait for it to end._

_“Welcome to your cor tenebrae.”_

 

~~~

 

Stiles had no idea if Derek was so exhausted that he simply was undisturbed by the screams or if, more likely, for once his voice hadn’t escaped the dream world. Either way, when Stiles woke up to the not-quite-darkness of Brooklyn at night and a damp chill in the air that felt blissful in the wake of the flames, he was grateful to feel Derek still sleeping quietly next to him. Derek was spooned up behind Stiles, one arm cushioning Stiles’ forehead. The other arm was wrapped around Stiles’ waist, and Derek’s breath tickled the short hairs of Stiles’ nape. Stiles’ face was pressed into the crook of Derek’s elbow, letting him put off the question of his sight for just a little longer. For several blissful minutes, Stiles just let himself have the moment.

After all, recognition of shades of morning aside, Stiles was only _pretty sure_ that his vision was back. Nothing hurt anymore, and Stiles felt the tingle of successful magic in his body, but self-confidence was never his strong suit. No matter what he’d told Derek, Stiles had never been certain he’d be able to get his vision back. It was easy, just for a moment, to keep his eyes shut against Derek’s elbow, listening to the morning, breathing in the soapy scent of Derek’s clean skin. He could pretend, just for a little while, that he was just any other man waking up next to his lover, with nothing to worry about except whether his morning breath was too awful to warrant sleepy kisses.

But then Delia, from her spot at the foot of the bed, whuffed quietly in her sleep. The fantasy broke, and cold washed over Stiles. 

Last night, when Derek had brought up Tom’s thoughts on Stiles’ anchor, Derek had seemed surprised at Stiles’ _lack_ of surprise. Stiles had suspected for awhile now that there was something more between him and Derek; they’d come a long way from Derek’s dark anger and almost-bad-guy status in the first months of their acquaintance. What they had wasn’t friendship, exactly, but it was _something_. Something calming. Something healing. Something comforting. 

What it _wasn’t_ was a relationship. They didn’t even live on the same side of the country, and Derek had run away from everything Stiles worked so fucking hard to protect. That alone didn’t bother Stiles — Derek had lost more in the battle for Beacon Hills than possibly anyone else, _ever_ — but it just meant there couldn’t be anything more. Derek had a home, a pack, a _family_ here in New York.

But Stiles was graduating in a year or so. Perhaps he could think about applying for colleges here...

As he pressed closer to Derek’s warmth, Stiles wished someone had told him that witches had anchors much earlier; he would have done so many things differently. The low hum of Derek’s power, completely unshielded as he slept, curled over and around Stiles’ body. It radiated from the points where they touched, and it made Stiles feel heavy and warm, soft and content in a way he hadn’t experienced in almost a decade, before his mother died. 

He owed Scott so many apologies. What it must have been like for Scott, not just in the beginning when Scott and Allison’s romance was fresh and full of possibility, but when Allison ended it? Stiles wasn’t in a romantic relationship with Derek, and he could barely bring himself to leave the bed, let alone Brooklyn. 

After everything they’d been through in the past few months, after how intimately they’d touched on so many occasions, it still somehow felt like breaking the rules when Stiles quietly and careful moved Derek’s arm from around his waist. He pulled it up to chest so he could wrap his fingers through Derek’s, and closed his eyes. Stiles knew from his biology courses that fingertips were one of the most sensitive parts of the body, with more nerve endings than almost anywhere else. But _magically_ , it was like a drug, letting fingertips slide against each other. Suddenly, Scott’s penchant for holding hands didn’t seem nearly as innocently cute as he’d once thought. A pleasant shiver ran through his body as he felt his energy spark with Derek’s, and behind him, Derek groaned quietly in his sleep and shifted closer. 

It took everything Stiles had not to react vocally, even though his body ached with the need to express its satisfaction and desire. But what if Derek didn’t want this? This was the first time they’d been close for a purpose other than healing or centering. Derek hadn’t seemed horrified by the idea of being Stiles’ anchor, but then again, the man was a genius at hiding his emotions. Perhaps he’d taken to the realization just like he did so many other perceived obligations: with a sense of duty rather than desire.

That thought alone was enough to finally convince Stiles to roll out of bed. This summer, he’d learned far more about the many, often subtle, ways that consent could be violated than he’d ever dreamed of, and he refused to do that to someone who was finally getting some element of control back in his life. If they were going to be _something_ , or — even better — _something more_ , well, they were going to have to go into it with his eyes wide open.

And, speaking of eyes wide open, Stiles realized, he could see. Thank _fuck_. Relief washed over him.  

As silently as possible — which, for a witch with more than a little power, was _damn_ silent — Stiles made his way out of the bedroom. He paused just inside the door to pull one of Derek’s t-shirts from his dresser and to check to make sure Derek was still sleeping soundly. Satisfied that Derek wouldn’t wake in the sudden absence of his warmth, Stiles pulled the shirt on and closed the door behind him as he walked out to the living room.

Stiles was ashamed to realize that he’d left one hell of a mess. Bits of burnt herbs scattered along the carpet and stones whose power had been sucked dry lay scattered across the floor, the chairs, and the tables. The dark energy of Christine’s spell left an oily black residue on the carpet, entirely metaphysical and unseen to normals, but just as nasty as a real stain. With a sigh, Stiles got to work.

It was painstaking, scooping up the brittle bits of burned herbs and shattered stone, but it gave Stiles something to focus on. It felt good to have his sight back, and focusing on the simple but very visual task of cleaning let him sort through the panic and fear that he hadn’t had time to process while focusing on healing. Now that he was separated from Derek’s grounding energy for the first time in days, it all came back in a rush of terror, anger, and disgust.

Christine had used Stiles in every possible way there was to be used. She’d tried to rob him of his power under the guise of helping him grow his own, and the after-effects of her presence in his mind and body made him shudder with horror. If he focused, Stiles could still feel the ghost of her presence singing along his nerves, just waiting for the opportunity to _take_.

Stiles was hit hard with an overwhelming desire to shower, to scrub away every last remaining bit of Christine that might still linger in his skin. But even as he took a step towards the bathroom, he knew it wouldn’t do any good. The after-effects of her damage lingered in the air of Derek’s apartment — slick and nasty, if entirely invisible on the physical plane.

He had to finish cleaning.

Stiles started with the physical, washing and scrubbing every surface he could reach with the all-natural cleaning products he found under the kitchen sink. Once the walls were clean and the dust was gone from the surfaces and the dirt removed from anywhere he could find it, he moved on to magical cleansing. He scrubbed the walls and the floors with saltwater. He took a kitchen knife to the channels of the window frames and carved protection and cleansing runes into the soft, old wood. He magicked over supplies from his chest at home and wove some quick protection charms from wire, thread, and bead-sized raw gemstones to hide in the corners of doors and windows, where they’d suck the negativity from anything or anyone who tried to pass. 

The carpet was harder, but not impossible. He used a shameless amount of magic to cleanse it of grime and dirt that nothing but an industrial cleaner could touch, then loaded a spray bottle with water, salt, iron shavings, and powdered quartz, and set to work. Most of the apartment was easy enough to purify, and the one room he didn’t bother with — Derek’s bedroom — didn’t need it. 

The oily stain on the living room carpet — the last remaining evidence of the expelled harmful energy from Christine’s spell — was the hardest to get rid of. Stiles used every tool — every charm, every crushed herb and stone, every spell — he could think of to get rid of it. It never felt purified enough, however, so finally Stiles ended up on his hands and knees, dousing the stain with his salt-quartz-iron-water mixture, scrubbing ruthlessly. His hands cracked and bled where the liquid splashed into his skin, drawing his power away as salt and iron were known to do for witches, but Stiles didn’t care. He just wanted every last trace of Christine gone.

Finally, Stiles stood up, hands burning and face streaked with tears. He picked up the bowl, murky with the inky black of leftover dark magic, and took it out to Derek’s balcony. The sunrise could purify the wash water, and Stiles would pour it out later, when it was rendered harmless and inert.

The shower didn’t feel as good as Stiles thought it was going to. He was shaking by the time he got in, but no matter how hot he turned the water, it didn't warm him. His stomach churned and his throat constricted, and before he knew what was happening, he was on the shower floor. The water fell like cold rain over his head and shoulders, and he brought his knees to his chest to try and calm the shaking. 

A warm hand settled on the back of Stiles’ neck, and he startled so hard that he knocked his temple against the tiled wall.

“Sorry,” Derek soothed, tightening his grip over Stiles’ nape. “I knocked, but you didn’t hear me.”

“Derek,” Stiles gasped. He turned his head to look at Derek, but all he could see was bare feet and pyjama bottoms. With a vague sense of detachment as Derek drew the shower curtain back, Stiles shuddered. “I think there’s something wrong with your pipes,” he said through chattering teeth. 

“Cold?” Derek asked, kneeling next to the tub.

Stiles nodded.

“It's just shock. You'll be all right.”

Stiles snorted. “And how, exactly, do you know that? I’m the one who’s supposed to be a precog now.”

Derek stroked a wet hand through Stiles’ soaked hair. “Because,” he said after a quiet moment. “I know exactly what you’re going through.”

That was the last straw for Stiles. The thought of Derek going through ten times worse than what Stiles was going through, thanks to Kate, finally broke him out of his detachment. The tears slipped down his face, mixing with the water of the shower, and he leaned into Derek’s hand. 

Though it meant that Derek’s shirt got completely soaked, he pulled Stiles to his chest. “You’ll be fine, Stiles. I promise.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry you keep getting stuck with me, having to comfort me. I know it’s not fair.”

Derek sighed. “It’s fine. Laura helped me. I’m helping you. I’m sure there’s a circle of life joke to be made there somewhere.”

“Maybe when I’m feeling better,” Stiles offered, laughing weakly.

“I’ll hold you to it.”


	9. Chapter 9

It was with no small amount of surprise that Derek found himself slowly drifting back into consciousness. Last night, wrapped around a damp and shivering Stiles, Derek’s senses had been on high alert. Though Derek’s rational brain knew that Stiles’ reactions were from a psychological threat — the memory of pain and violation — not a physical one, his instincts told him that he had to be on guard. He had to be ready to protect and defend. He had to stay awake and alert to keep Stiles safe.

But the question of how he’d managed to fall asleep despite all that was quickly pushed to the back burner by the feeling of long fingers stroking his palm. The touch was light and gentle; a soft movement that felt pleasant in the soft city pre-dawn light. 

“Stiles?” Derek grunted, voice rough. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, letting them adjust to the almost-dark before turning his head to peer across the bed. 

Some time in the night, Stiles had somehow managed to slip free of Derek’s protective embrace to slouch down the mattress. He was bare-chested and sleep-disheveled, eyes bright despite the hour. The tangled mess of blankets around his lower half created an illusion of nudity that Derek had a hard time ignoring, despite knowing that Stiles had slipped into a pair of Derek’s own pajama bottoms after last night’s shower. 

“I love it here, in New York,” Stiles admitted quietly, eyes focused on where he was stroking Derek’s palm. “It doesn’t ever really get dark here, does it?”

Derek shook his head, skin tingling as the friction of his hair on the sheets sent sparks of electricity running through his body.

“And it feels safe. Not just the building, though I do have to admit I love the safety of all the wolves in the building. Even if they hate people like me. But here, on your bed, next to you… I just feel safe.”

When Derek shifted so he could turn more fully towards Stiles, he tried to keep his movements fractional enough to avoid startling him. There was no magic in the air, no singe of ozone nor crackle of extra energy, but it still felt like Stiles was weaving a spell just for them. Derek didn’t want to break it. He didn’t want to move his hand, to do anything that might cause Stiles to stop touching him.

“You have a really long lifeline,” Stiles declared, voice quiet and reverent as he traced the crease in Derek’s palm. There was a long silence, where Derek had nothing to distract him from the feeling of Stiles’ finger rhythmically brushing over his palm. “I’m not reading this wrong, am I, Derek? I don’t think either one of us could easily go back to outright dislike or, worse, indifference.”

Heart hammering in his chest, Derek shook his head. No, Stiles wasn’t reading this wrong. Not that Derek intended to do anything about it, or let Stiles do anything. Whether Stiles wanted to acknowledge it or not, what happened with Christine — what happened before she tried to kill him — wasn’t okay. What happened with a lot of Stiles’ past instructors wasn’t okay. Stiles was a 17 year old kid who’d been trained to think that every useful act offered to him required a trade. Derek didn’t think Stiles would _consciously_ trade sex for comfort as some sort of repayment for Derek helping him through the past several days, but he couldn’t risk it. Hell, Derek himself wasn’t sure where the possessiveness and protectiveness ended and the affection began.

“We’re going to finish this. We’re going to track that bitch down, take back my amulet, fix Delia,” Stiles continued. Then he turned his head slightly and, looking up at Derek through thick eyelashes, brushed his mouth against Derek’s palm. “Then, after that’s all done, we’ll talk about everything else. Okay?”

Derek inhaled sharply when Stiles’ mouth brushed his skin for a second time, the touch so light that he barely felt it. He couldn’t think of a thing to say, except for a stupid acknowledgement, like ‘okay’, which wasn’t right for the situation at all. So instead of responding verbally, he reached down and pulled Stiles up the bed. He rolled Stiles to face away from him so they were pressed chest to back, just like they had been the entire time Stiles had been recovering. It felt right on more levels than Derek was willing to acknowledge in the moment, and — for once — he didn’t feel like there was something to feel guilty about.

“You really like it here?” Derek asked, the words pressed into Stiles’ skin where Derek’s mouth was close enough to feel the heat.

“I do. The hum of the city, the constant light, the knowledge there is always someone alert, awake, and nearby.”

“I didn’t mean the city,” Derek grumbled, though he was secretly, deeply pleased.

“I know.” Stiles curled his fingers around where Derek’s arm was pressed to his chest. “Yes, Derek. I like it here. A lot.”

Derek exhaled in relief. When Stiles liked something, he chased it with a single-minded, selfish focus that was almost enviable. Derek wasn’t some passing interest, some little crush Stiles might get over while Derek waited for him — waited for him to get his mind straight, to change the path he was on, to grow up a little. And Stiles, if he cared for Derek even half as much as he’d cared for Lydia, would let him wait until they were both ready. 

It seemed reasonable to think that Stiles cared for him, Derek thought as he tugged Stiles just a little closer. Derek was his anchor, for the love of god. That _meant_ something.

 

~~~

 

“Hey Dad,” Stiles said softly. Derek blinked slowly awake, nuzzling groggily into the pillow that still smelled like magical teenage boy, who was now in the kitchen, drumming his fingers on the table nervously. “How are you?”

“Stiles? Jesus Christ, Stiles, where in the _hell_ have you been?”

“I’m fine, Dad. I, uh… I’ve been in New York,” Stiles answered hesitantly.

“New York?!” the Sheriff shouted back, the anger in his voice no less terrifying for the cellphone speaker’s tinniness. There was a long pause during which neither Stilinski said anything, and Derek heard the Sheriff take a deep breath. “It’s been days, Stiles, and — last I knew — you were supposed to be in Transylvania County, North Carolina.”

Stiles swallowed so loudly that Derek though he might have been able to hear it even without wolf hearing. “I was. Things didn’t, uh, go well. With the witch. I kinda had to leave suddenly.”

“So, let’s go through this list of transgressions of yours so we know just how deep in the hole you’ve dug yourself, and how much grounding it’s gonna take to get you out, shall we? Rule number one was that you give me at least a couple days’ notice before going anywhere —”

“I know, Dad, I’m sorry, I just —” Stiles started to interrupt. The Sheriff made another angry sound, and Derek smirked at how Stiles _instantly_ stopped talking. He couldn’t imagine how tough it must have been to raise someone whose mind and body refused to be silent ninety percent of the time. He wondered if, someday, it might be wise to talk to the elder Stilinski to get tips on how to deal with Stiles.

Then he rolled over again, face down into the pillow, and groaned at all the implications of _that_ sort of thinking.

“Rule number two —”

“Never allow myself to be left somewhere, therefore unable to get away if I need to. Pretty much no longer applicable,” Stiles offered in a hopeful voice.

“Uh huh,” John replied, clearly unimpressed. “Rule number three? Can I assume at least that Delia is safe and by your side?”

“She’s here. She’s fine. Fit as a fiddle,” Stiles said, shifting at the table. His heart tripped over the lie, but his voice was steady. Derek hated how skilled Stiles had become in the art of deception, and loathed the day he might be even be able to cover his heartbeat with magic.

“When you say New York, I don’t suppose you mean the lovely and only sparsely populated upstate area, do you?” the Sheriff asked, sounding nothing but resigned.

“Right, because Beacon Hills, for all its unpopulated, rural glory is just a safe haven of calm and tranquility,” Stiles replied sardonically.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.”

“Dad, I’m fine,” Stiles sighed, his heart hammering at the deception. “I’m in a building full of werewolves, actually, so probably the safest block in all of the city.”

“A _building_ full of _werewolves_? Werewolves, I presume, you don’t know from Adam.”

“Uh, actually, I’m staying with, uh, Derek and Cora Hale. In their apartment. In an apartment building for werewolves.”

“Derek and Cora Hale,” John repeated. “Really? And how,  _exactly_ , did you get from a cottage in the Blue Ridge Mountains to an apartment building in New York City?”

Derek sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, focused entirely on Stiles. He knew that Stiles had gotten away with his self destructive behavior not by hiding it, exactly, but by telling factual truth while leaving out the emotional honesty. And while Derek understood it — hell, he was all about avoiding the tough conversations — he hoped maybe this time Stiles would actually tell the whole truth. Make use of his support network, for once.

“It’s… complicated,” Stiles replied carefully, and Derek shook his head and got up to dress. “But it was a bad situation, Dad. The witch turned out to be a not-so-good person, and I had to get out of there.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, son. I know how excited you were to learn to use, uh... telepathy...”

"Precognition, dad."

John sighed. “But I still don’t see how this ends with you in the Hales’ apartment in New York City.”

“That’s something I’d rather not explain over the phone. I needed help, and Derek was basically the only person with the tools to help me, so I came here,” Stiles explained wearily. 

Something in Stiles’ tone must have given his father enough pause to not immediately curse out his son. “Son, are you okay?” he asked instead.

“Fine. I’m, uh… I’m coming home soon. To stay. For awhile, anyway. I think I’m done with the whole apprentice thing for awhile.” There was the sound of shuffling and something hitting the wood of the tabletop. 

Cards, Derek realized as he got dressed. He’d never seen Stiles play cards; had never even seen him with a pack of them. They had to have been Stiles’, though, given that Derek didn't own even a Bicycle pack.

“Well, I should hope so,” John replied gruffly as the whispering of paper on wood played a curious background sound. “School starts in three days.”

“There is a lot I can learn in three days,” Stiles objected with a chuckle. “Now that I can basically apparate —” 

“Apparate?”

“Uh, transport myself? You know, like, ‘Beam me up, Scotty!’, except without Scotty, or science. Well, unless you count the magical but obviously still very scientific powers of the universe. Which, you know, you _should_ , because, just because we don’t understand something doesn’t mean it’s not _science_ —”

“Son,” John cut him off, sounding fond and perhaps even a little relieved at the nearly incoherent rambling that was the norm for Stiles. “When should I expect you?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles sighed. “I’m still not feeling up to par, and there are some things I need to figure out.”

“Like what?”

“Like how to sort out this mass of visions in my head so I can know what’s relevant and what’s not. ‘Cause let me tell you, some of them are scary, Dad.”

“Scary how?” 

“You don’t want to know. Though I promise to tell you if you actually do need to know.”

“Stiles —”

“Fire,” Stiles said suddenly. Derek froze where he was standing, though his body felt like a violent shiver wanted to run through it. Whether it was at the word itself, or at the almost vacant tone in Stiles’ voice, Derek didn’t know. “Ice. Darkness. Monsters. Death.”

“Stiles.”

With a shuddering breath, Stiles stopped his low recitation of what had apparently been haunting his imagination. Derek listened as Stiles scooped up the cards he’d laid out on the table. “I don’t _know_ anything yet. Like I said, I need to sort it out.”

“Right,” John huffed, resigned. “Is there anything I actually can help you with?”

“Got any ideas on how I can drag Derek back?” Stiles asked cheerfully.

“Seriously?” The Sheriff didn’t sound surprised, but Derek sure as hell was.

“Yeah. I mean, I was thinking a —”

“Stop!” 

Stiles chuckled at the interruption. “What, pops?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“While Hale is only three years older than you, I’ll ask you to remember the fact that the age of consent here in California is still 18. Which means, Stiles, that you’re still a good eight months away from being able to tell me anything that might, at present, force me to arrest him.”

“Seven and a half months, technically, but I get your point.” 

For a moment, only the sound of shuffling cards reached Derek’s ears as he simultaneously juggled the thoughts that a) Stiles was out to his father, b) Stilinski knew that his son was sexually active, and c) they both were assuming things about Derek that he’d never admitted to either of them.

Then Stiles cleared his throat mischievously. “What’s the age of consent in New York?”

“Shut up, Stiles,” John sighed. “Why do you want him here?”

“I need his help.” There was no blip in Stiles’ heart, and Derek felt a little disappointed.

“In the same capacity as he’s helping you now?” 

“We’re not actually like that,” Stiles chuckled. It might have been wishful thinking, but Derek thought Stiles maybe even sounded regretful. “As far as I know, he’s only dated women.”

“As far as you know, he’s only dated serial killers,” John pointed out helpfully, and Derek winced.

“So maybe I should be happy he isn’t attracted to me?” Stiles asked, and this time John laughed.

“Should I clear out the guest bedroom?”

“I don’t know. Derek hates Beacon Hills. He’s come back a couple times to help with, uh, pack stuff, but he never actually stays.”

“How long would you need him in town for?”

“I have no idea,” Stiles confessed.

John sighed, and Stiles made an irritated sound in return.

“Look, Dad, I freaking _just_ got this particular set of powers —”

“Powers, really?” John scoffed.

“Oh my god, _Dad_ ,” Stiles whined, sounding, for the first time in the conversation, every bit the petulant seventeen year old he was.

“I’ll make up the guest bedroom,” John replied definitively. “Whether he comes here or not, whether he stays somewhere else or not, let him know he’s welcome here.” Then he paused. “ _In the guest bedroom_ ,” he added clearly.

Stiles’ groan would have made Derek snicker if he wasn’t too busy having a minor breakdown. It wasn’t just the obvious green light from both Stilinskis on any relationship he might want to pursue with Stiles, though that was enough for him to chew on for awhile. It was also about how Stiles seemed to be convinced that he _needed_ Derek — though for what, Derek wasn’t sure. The conversation hadn’t revealed whether it was because Stiles needed Derek as his anchor, or as an ally to fight against whatever Stiles was having visions about. 

But just as the thought of returning to Beacon Hills for more than a day or two threatened to overwhelm Derek with anxiety, Stiles made a sound of relief that was genuine. _Grateful_. It made Derek immediately decide that he’d go back with Stiles, no matter how much he hated the idea of getting sucked back in. Not to stay — he just didn’t think he could do it — but to support Stiles until whatever threat he was seeing was resolved.

A tiny voice in the back of his head made Derek wonder if threats would _ever_ be fully resolved, but he pushed it away. The fact was that Stiles couldn’t stay there forever. He had one more year until he’d be gone, off to college, which would buy Derek four years’ reprieve. Even if Stiles didn’t choose to come to New York, at least there was nothing but a community college in their hometown.

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles sighed as he quit shuffling and started laying out cards again. “I’ll see you soon. Probably before sunset tomorrow.”

“Not earlier?”

The sound of cards hitting the table stopped. “No. Not earlier.”

 

~~~

 

Stiles hung up with his father and stared down at the spread in front of him. Christine had given him a well-loved, traditional Rider-Waite deck, and after several minutes of feeling out its energies, he’d reassured himself it wasn’t spelled against him. In fact, it felt old. Very old. Christine’s dark energy was just a watercolor of black through the swirl of colors leftover from its former, better-intentioned owners.

The designs on the cards, though familiar, weren’t something that he understood academically. He had a general idea of interpretations; he knew the symbolism behind each of the major arcana cards and the general meanings behind the four suits, but that’s where his knowledge broke down. And that made interpretation, well, _frustrating_. Not to mention the fact that Christine had told him not to trust them. He figured a liar warning him not to trust something… well, there was something meta in that and he was just going to take it at face value.

Every time he touched a card, a vision flashed in his head of what it was trying to say. Fire. Ice, Darkness. Monsters. Death. Over and over and over again. He didn’t let himself be truly frightened, though; not yet, anyway. Those were all things that had pretty prominent slots in his memory as The Worst Things Ever. And though he was aware that each place in the spread had a different meaning (past, present, future, influences on each, etc.), he wasn’t aware of them enough to know which was which. He needed to go home and check out his books on the subject, but not now. First things first.

A hiss of water and the rattle of pipes sounded from somewhere behind the kitchen wall, and Stiles realized that Derek must finally have gotten up. But even the thought of naked, wet Derek couldn’t pull his attention away from the cards. The longer he stared at them, the more they seemed to blur together into a blackness that was very familiar. _Cor Tenebrae_ , she’d called it.

 _Christine_. Stiles hadn’t recognized the voice when it was in his dream, but he knew instinctively that it was her. 

He sighed and stood up, looking away from the cards to start hunting for coffee supplies. He didn’t think it’d be hard to find out what place he’d seen/felt/heard in his vision. _Second deepest hole on Earth,_ she’d whispered in his dream. A quick internet search should solve the mystery.

After a few minutes of snooping through cupboards, he found coffee and filters and started brewing enough for both him and Derek. He wasn’t in any rush to to find the hole, knowing damn well that it was a trap. So he turned to the fridge and started hunting for breakfast.

When Derek finally emerged from his bedroom, Stiles had two plates of scrambled eggs with sausage on the table, a full carafe of coffee ready, and was in the process of coring a couple of apples. The look Derek gave him was almost suspicious, but Stiles ignored it in favor of shamelessly appraising freshly-showered morning hair and the way Derek’s jeans and thin t-shirt clung to his damp body.

“Dude,” Stiles couldn’t help but chuckle. “I thought it took lots of product and some serious mirror time to achieve the trademark Derek Hale hair.”

Derek stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Towel drying now, some gel later before I go out. But now that you know my secret, I’m going to have to kill you.”

“Let me eat breakfast first?” Stiles pleaded with a smirk.

With a noise of agreement, Derek slid into the chair opposite Stiles. 

“What’s all this for?” Derek asked as Stiles pushed the carafe towards him.

Stiles sighed, not answering for a long moment as he started to eat his eggs. “It’s what I call a heart attack special,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t make it often, my dad’s cholesterol levels being what they are. Just be thankful I left off the cheese.” _Comfort food_ , he didn’t say. He didn’t need to, though, because something in Derek’s expression seemed to soften, and he nodded.

They ate in silence, Stiles too distracted to be much for conversation. The window that Christine had helped Stiles look through, helped him open, was also turning out to be a little bit more of a pain in the ass than he’d anticipated. Everything he touched seemed to give him a flicker of something. Tiny, minute insights into the object’s lifespan kept sparking through his imagination. The way Christine had made it sound, he would have to work hard at pulling visions out of things, using tools like mirror, crystals, and so on to clarify them. But perhaps having already had that window into his mind opened meant that the visions came easier.

No matter the cause, the visions started to come faster, clearer, the longer he spent in bare-skin contact with certain objects. He ended up having to set down his fork ( _used, formerly owned by a woman who’d got the set as a 25th anniversary present, whose husband died after he had eaten his 82nd birthday dinner with this very fork_ ) to eat with his fingers. But, as Stiles quickly realized as flashes of a pig’s life flashed through his eyes, eating sausage with his fingers wasn’t the best idea, either.

“What?” Derek asked. Stiles looked down at his hands, which had been still for far too long.

“Nothing. Just, uh…” Stiles pushed the half-full plate away, giving Derek a rueful smile. “You know how I can’t eat processed crap? Apparently I’m a vegetarian now, too.”

Derek stared at him for a moment, eyes traveling between the plate and Stiles’ face. Finally, he chuckled. “Well, that sucks.”

“It really does,” Stiles agreed. He stared for a moment at the coffee cup, trying to school his magic into place. He concentrated on visualizing a flame as a way of calming and centering himself, the way David had showed him. It worked. 

“So, I’m going to get out of here in a just a little bit. I, uh, cleaned up last night. Obviously. But if there’s anything else I can do for you…” Stiles drifted off, blinking down at his plate.

“You don’t have to do anything for me, Stiles,” Derek said, and Stiles smiled up at him.

“I know,” he replied, grinning. “I know I don’t _have_ to do anything for you. Which pretty much is why I want to. Well, not really. I mean, not the only reason. Just one of the many. Which, uh, I should probably shut up about.” Stiles chuckled nervously, then stood and rubbed the back of his neck. 

 _Stupid, idiot, stupid_ , Stiles cursed himself. A damn powerful witch, or so everyone kept saying. Incredibly powerful. Probably enough to nuke a city if he wanted to. Raise the dead. Hell, he could see the fucking _future_ now — or, once he got a good enough handle on his newfound power he would be able to. But he still couldn’t handle his own tongue.

After scraping the rest of his plate in the garbage, Stiles turned to start the dishes. It didn’t take long for Derek to finish his meal and bring his plate and mug to the sink, but when Stiles turned to try and take them, Derek shook his head and set them on the counter. He stepped into Stiles’ space, bracketing him with his arms, pressing his chest against Stiles’ back.

“I know what you meant,” Derek said, voice a pleasant, low rumble at Stiles’ ear.

“I was pretty smooth last night,” Stiles chuckled in embarrassment. “I don’t know what happened.”

The clack of claws on the linoleum caught Stiles’ attention, and looked down to see Delia make her slow way across the kitchen to sit at their feet. She leaned heavily against both their legs, looking up with most of the past days’ misery finally gone from her eyes. “Lazy beast,” Stiles chastised fondly. He shook the bubbles off his left hand to reach down from within Derek’s almost-embrace to scratch behind her ear.

“Stiles,” Derek said, reaching down to scratch Delia as well. “You want to ask me something. I can practically feel you vibrating with it.”

Stiles sighed and leaned back against Derek a little more firmly. How the hell had Derek intuited that? Stiles himself hadn’t even thought this through yet. He’d only just started to phrase the question in his own head before everything else started getting in the way. And now the visions had quieted; the world had been made silent by the weight of having his anchor pressed against him.

“I don’t want to leave,” Stiles surprised himself by saying. “I don’t actually like the werewolf building all that much, mostly because they hate me, but I like it here with you. Not having to worry about things trying to kill me. Kill my father. Kill my friends.”

“But,” Derek offered, the regret heavy in his voice.

“But I can’t leave them. All of this, everything I’ve done, was for them. To make them safe.”

“So you’re going back.” 

Stiles held his breath, waiting for Derek to pull away, but he didn’t. “I am. But not right away,” he said. “Well, right away by my standards.”

“What do you mean?” Derek asked, hooking his chin over Stiles’ shoulder. It was the sort of comfort and physical affection Stiles didn’t actually know Derek was capable of. Was it being here in New York, away from the stresses of Beacon Hills that made it possible? Was it because they’d spent two full days being wrapped up in each other as Stiles healed? Either way, unless Stiles went for the impossible choice, it didn’t matter. He was about to ruin it.

“After I do a little bit of research, I think I’ll know where we need to go next.”

“We?”

Stiles swallowed, and wrapped his hands around Derek’s forearms, using the contact to calm himself. “Me, and Delia. And, uh, you. If you still wanted to help.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Not yet,” Stiles admitted. “But I will. I’ll ask everyone I know to help. They’re just as invested in getting rid of someone like Christine as we are. Probably more, really. I mean, someone like her is incredibly bad for the community.”

“All right,” Derek said, and Stiles was glad Derek couldn’t see the surprise on his face. He hadn’t expected it to be this easy.

“So you’re coming?”

Derek pulled away and crossed into the living room. “I said I would. But we can talk about conditions after we’ve figured out where we’re going, and what we’re doing.”

Stiles turned, eyebrow raised, as he watched Derek retrieve his laptop off the coffee table. “Conditions?”

Derek gave him an unimpressed look. “You have your resources, I have mine.” He brought the laptop to the dining room table and pulled out the chair, looking pointedly at Stiles. “You research. I’ll do the dishes.”

Behind his back, Stiles scooped up a handful of suds, the bubbles popping pleasantly on his hand. “Sure thing, Derek,” he said, striding up to the table.

The look on Derek’s face when Stiles blew the bubbles at him — part incredulous, part horrified, part fond — was worth being tackled to the kitchen floor in retaliation.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic previews, eye candy, prompt fills, and gpoy galore [on my Tumblr](http://bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com/).


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